by Shari Low
But of course, since we were lips to lips, chest to chest, hips to hips, that meant panic stations, panic stations…
Thankfully, he reacted first this time.
‘Leni, do you have a condom?’
‘Right beside you, top drawer, bedside table,’ I whispered.
More fumble fumble. My fantasy sex was definitely much slicker than the real thing.
‘Hang on, I’ll put the light on, but only on the condition that you don’t look in this direction.’
His laughter was contagious. ‘You are the craziest, funniest woman I’ve ever met.’
‘I was going for gorgeous and irresistible,’ I giggled.
‘Yeah, you’re that too.’
Our pupils just about had a seizure when the light flashed on, and my hand automatically flew to my eyes to protect them. I heard him pull the drawer open, rummage around, and then there was the unmistakable sound of rustling foil.
‘Check the use-by date–those could have fossilised by now,’ I warned him, palm still clasped firmly over eyes.
‘It’s 2011–we’re fine,’ he reassured me, still laughing.
My eyes clenched even tighter when I heard the foil rip open. Watching a man I barely knew putting on a condom was almost as mortifying to me as the prospect of him having face-to-bush contact.
He was obviously still finding this whole thing highly amusing. ‘Are you going to keep your eyes shut?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay, it’s done.’
I reached up to the switch above the headboard and flicked the light off. His mouth found mine again, his left hand gently massaged my right boob, my hands burrowed deep into his hair, and we sank into a blissful, ecstatic oblivion.
Slowly, gently, he moved on top of me, his leg gently pushing mine apart, allowing him to climb in between them.
Then tenderly, his lips never leaving mine, he rose up, higher, higher, until he gently, delectably slid inside.
And as my hands slid down and clutched on to his back, our two bodies locked together and perfectly, perfectly matched, I had a burning, irrepressible urge to ask him the most important question of all.
‘Dave…’ I whispered, my breaths coming in short, ecstatic bursts. ‘What’s your star sign?’
Kiss FM Commercial Break. 6.45 a.m.
Backing track: the unmistakable sound of wind chimes, played over a slow, smooth instrumental piece by piano and strings.
Vocal: the raspy, sexy tones of a twenty/thirty-ish female with seductive tones.
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20
Lunar Landing
‘What. A. Crock. Of. Shit.’ The disgust in Trish’s tone was almost venomous as she flicked off the radio in her little office and slurped her Skinny Mocha Chocca from its Starbucks tin mug. ‘I mean, what is this, the fucking 1800s?’
She leaned towards the radio, apparently so overcome with rage that she was under the misapprehension that dialogue directed at the silver boom box would, by some powers of reverse physics, be transmitted straight back to Zara.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of the suffragettes, you daft, insidious cow!’
Over in the corner, sitting on a bright purple beanbag chair, carefully trying to drink my latte without spilling any on the stuffed folder and pile of loose papers on my knees, I gingerly shrugged my shoulders. Bad move. And one that immediately diverted her wrath in my direction…
‘Look, Leni, I know it was me who got you into this whole thing, and I thought it would be a bit of a laugh, and let’s face it, you need all the help you can get when it comes to landing someone…’
‘Cheers,’ I nodded, my voice deadpan.
‘…but this whole thing has turned into an exercise in fucking degradation of the female species. I mean, what woman actually lives her life with the sole purpose of finding a man? Do they think we all wander around, tits out, preening ourselves like brainless fucking twats so that Mr Fucking Wonderful will whiz down and rescue us? Haven’t we come further than this? I mean, really, haven’t we fucking moved on from the time when a woman’s sole mission in life was to land the right bloke? It’s pathetic. And I can’t believe that you’re involved in this.’
‘I refer you back to your original point–it’s your fault I’m doing this in the first place,’ I argued, in a low, monotone voice, desperate to adjust the volume level of the conversation as I was cognisant of the fact that if the shouting continued then it was a fair certainty that my eyeballs would crack, my brain would explode and my teeth would shatter and fall out.
‘I know, and to be honest I didn’t find it in any way offensive to start with. I thought it was just another daft idea Zara had dreamed up and one that might kill two birds with one stone for you…’
‘The two birds being?’
‘New job and the chance to meet new blokes. I didn’t realise that she’d turn it into a full-scale propaganda campaign that sets the feminist movement back fucking centuries. And the irony is that it’s such an obvious waste of time. What bloody woman of the new millennium would even by interested in this shit?’
I had two choices: keep quiet and concentrate on my internal monologue of ‘Sweet Lord, make this stop’, or light the blue touch paper that would probably result in my inevitable death.
‘The book’s only been available to pre-order for the last month…’ Sweet Lord, make me stop speaking now. ‘And we’ve already had four and a half thousand orders.’
‘YOU. ARE. PULLING. MY. PLONKER!!!!’
I wondered how observant she would have to be to realise that I was in absolutely no state to pull anyone’s plonker.
‘I GIVE UP. I FUCKING GIVE UP.’
‘Look, Trish, not everyone has someone like Grey. You were really lucky when you met him.’
‘I wasn’t lucky; I set my fucking kitchen on fire.’
I decided to go along the flattery and mollification line. Much as I loved her, one of Trish’s ultimate weak points (other than the Tourette’s, the aggression and the homicidal tendencies) was her feeling of mild smugness that she’d met an amazing guy and had an equally amazing marriage.
‘You know what I mean. A lot of women would kill for the kind of relationship you’ve got, but they’re hard to find. Maybe women can have it all, but some just want to know the best place to find it, and Zara has tapped into that. Don’t look at this as being a lot of desperate women who will try anything to find a bloke, look on it as appealing to efficient women who are prepared to entertain the notion that Zara might have found a way to cut out all the crap and go straight to the prize.’
I don’t know who was more surprised–me or Trish. Where had all that come from? Since when had I added reasonable debate and informed argumentative skills to my CV? And since when had I defended the insanity that was Zara? Obviously getting wellied and shagged had addled my brain.
Trish’s eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, and she stare
d at me with a new intensity.
‘What’s happened to you?’
Rabbit. Headlights.
‘What have you done? Something’s changed. You’re different this morning…You’re…’ Her eyebrows changed position and the evil grin of a Bond baddie crossed her face. ‘You’ve had sex!’
‘Haven’t.’
‘You have! Shit, no, don’t tell me it was with one of Zara’s stud squad.’
I resolved to remain silent and divulge nothing. That lasted for about ten seconds before I caved. I would have been rubbish in the war.
‘A nurse from the hospital yesterday.’
‘You’re kidding! You’re playing for the chicks’ team? Christ, the world’s gone mad. Only last week I found a twelve-inch strap-on in MC Madge’s lilac dressing room, and now you’ve gone over to playing for Vulva United too? Fantastic! I always knew you’d get interesting eventually,’ she gasped, loving every excruciating second of this.
I ignored the slur–my head hurt too much to argue. ‘Such sexist stereotypes are beneath you, my friend. It’s a male nurse, his name’s Dave, and yes, we were engaged in biblical activities until…’ I checked my watch ‘…about an hour and a half ago.’
‘Eeeeew, mental picture I could have lived without there. Still, it could have been worse–you could have been getting rogered by MC Madge and the incredible foot-long dildo’. I loved how my friends made me feel warm and bubbly. ‘Just tell me the non-genital stuff.’
I gave her the shortened version, given that the rest of her staff would be here in ten minutes and I wanted to get some work done before Zara rushed in for her slot with Goldie. We’d developed a routine on a Friday morning whereby we’d just meet at the television studios. Surprisingly, it had been Zara’s idea, and she reasoned that instead of me travelling into the office and then leaving again an hour later to make my way to the studios, it made more sense for me to come directly here and work while I waited for her to get here from her early-morning hair-dressing, make-up and meditation session.
Somehow, however, I don’t think that her definition of ‘work while I wait’ extended to imparting chapter and verse about my duvet antics from the night before to the demonic Great Morning TV! catering chief.
Trish listened, enthralled by the whole story, right up until the point where I’d woken up next to Dave that morning.
My cheeks were infused with a disturbingly unattractive shade of puce as I recounted what happened next.
When the alarm went off we had spun round to face each other. I won’t go into details about what we’d been doing immediately before that point, but it involved extreme bendiness and the ability to hold one’s breath for long periods of time.
‘Wakey wakey,’ I’d said lamely, flipping my body round so that all of me was pointing in the same direction.
He’d snuggled his face into the middle of my bosoms, with an accompanying laugh and a muffled, ‘I don’t know if you noticed, Miss Lomond, but we haven’t been to sleep yet. At least I haven’t. Did you nod off there during that last bit?’
I’d nodded and he’d tweaked my right nipple in revenge, before reaching over and kissing me.
‘So now that I’ve given you a thorough examination I can assure you that you’re in perfect health,’ he’d joked. ‘And what exactly do you think of our new healthcare services?’
‘I think they should be available to everyone.’
He’d groaned and flopped back on the pillow. ‘Better get working on my stamina then.’
He’d reached over and played with a lock of my hair, the one that was pointing straight at him. The rest of my crowning glory, courtesy of our indoor gymnastics, was doing a great impersonation of a burst sofa.
‘I have to go,’ he’d murmured, and I had been gratified to detect a definite tone of reluctance.
‘I remember you saying that a few hours ago.’
‘But this time I really have to–I start work in an hour.’
The bed had rocked as he’d kissed me then jumped up. I’d squeezed my eyes shut again. Yes, I know–it was fine for me to spend several hours doing pornographic things with a virtual stranger, but I’d flinched at seeing his willy in daylight. I had definitely been first in the queue when God gave out weird inhibitions and repressed behaviour.
As soon as I’d heard the unmistakable sound of a zip being pulled up, I’d opened my eyes and for the first time got a full, daylight view of a half-naked Nurse Dave. His pale skin was a striking contrast to his black hair, his abs and biceps were tight and defined, and as he’d twisted round and down to pull on his socks, I’d realised that he had a melon-sized tattoo in the centre of his back.
‘It’s a Maori warrior symbol,’ he’d revealed sheepishly. ‘I was eighteen and I’d never been out of London, but hey, it made sense at the time.’
I liked the tattoo, I liked that he’d been reckless, and I liked that he was open to admitting that he’d been a bit of a twat.
The inevitable awkward moment came when he’d pulled on his boots and stood up, ready to leave. ‘Sorry for bolting, Leni, but I have to get home and shower before my shift starts.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll…’ I’d blustered, and then realised that I had no idea how to finish the sentence.
‘Can we do this again? I mean, not just the sex bit, although that would be great and I’d like to and…I mean, see each other, again, like, another night.’
And I also liked that sometimes he got just as tongue-twisted and incoherent as me.
‘That would be good.’
Then the realisation had dawned. I still had seven more dates to go. I had no idea why I hadn’t told him about it, but somehow, during the previous sixteen hours we’d spent together, there just hadn’t been the right moment. Or maybe it was just that I still hadn’t found a way to describe the scenario that didn’t make me sound like a slapper. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to say anything that would make him think less of me. Or judge me. Whatever the reason, right there in that moment I had a flash of déjà vu, the final conversation with Jon came into my head, and it made sense to me to postpone starting whatever we were starting until the dates were over with.
‘But, look, Dave, I’ve got a thing going on with work just now–a project that’s really intense and involves loads of working at night and it’s a bit demanding. It’s kind of why I had a bit of a revolt yesterday and went to the pub. Anyway, would it be okay to wait a few weeks until that’s out of the way?’
His hesitation was clear. ‘Leni, are you giving me the brush-off?’ he’d asked gently.
‘No, no, I promise! Trust me, I’m not a brush-off kind of girl. It’s just difficult right now. But I’d like to see you again. Honest!’
He’d thought about it for a moment. Don’t say no. Please don’t say no. Then he’d grabbed a pen from my bedside table and scribbled a number on the front of this month’s copy of Glamour.
‘Call me when you can.’
I’d pulled the duvet up in a feeble attempt to mask the grin that was already making my jaws ache. He’d reached over, ruffled my hair, and then he was gone.
Body MOT: legs aching, stomach muscles tender, boobs happy, libido satisfied, brain ecstatic. Talk about famine and feast. I hadn’t met anyone I liked in years and now I’d met two guys in two weeks.
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. Ring. Ring.
It had taken me a while to realise that the sound was coming from inside my flat, and another few moments to suss out that it was originating from under my bed. I’d scrambled over and thrust my hand down, fishing under the IKEA oak bedstead until I’d located the object that was spoiling my supreme moment of self-indulgent glory-basking.
The name flashing on the screen was CHARLIE. His brother? His best mate?
‘Hello?’
Pause.
‘Sorry, I must have dialled the wrong number.’ Female voice. His sister? His aunt?
‘Is it Dave that you’re looking for?’
‘Yes, is he there?’ The voice was sounding more than a little perturbed now, and my spider senses of doom were starting to tingle.
‘No, he’s not. Er, sorry to be blunt, but who is this?’
‘This is Charlie.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Yes, Charlie. I’m Dave’s girlfriend.’
Trish’s eyes literally popped out like those of the Amazonian frogs in that David Attenborough programme. ‘You are kidding me!’
‘If only.’
‘What a shit!’
Thankfully, her rant was cut short by the arrival of Jessica, her second in command.
‘Trish, the bakery has messed up again–they’ve delivered four hundred pain au chocolat instead of forty.’
‘Which tosser signed for that?’ Trish screeched.
‘Me. Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.’
And that’s when Trish did that astonishingly out-of-character thing that she pulled out when you least expected it. ‘How’s the baby doing?’
‘Still the same. The doctors say it’s croup and it’ll pass, but he was up all night again.’
‘Honey, you’re exhausted, on you go home and get some sleep. I’ll sort out the cake-fest. The homeless shelter up the road is in for a treat.’
There was the dichotomy that was Trish. Militant, fierce and high-grade combustible, but she did actually possess the compassionate gene. Jessica welled up with gratitude. ‘Thanks, Trish, you’re a star. I really appreciate it.’
Trish leaned over and hugged me. ‘Gotta go, hon. But I’ll be back later and we can work out an assassination plan for Dave the Dick.’
With Trish out of the way, I commandeered her immaculately tidy desk, thumped my folder in the middle then plugged in my laptop. As soon as it booted up, I opened up the Word function, step one to committing minor fraud. As I’d made my way to the studios that morning under a little cloud of Shiraz fumes and regret, I’d decided that I’d find one way to salvage a shred of usefulness from my night with Nurse Dave.