Not yet anyway.
She finally left the cubicle and re-joined the table.
‘So go on then, Shell,’ Briony said, apparently having realised belatedly it was time to change the subject. ‘Tell us about your new assignment. You can’t keep it secret for ever, you know.’
‘Yes, Shelley, what’s it all about? We’ve all told you what we’re up to,’ Freya pouted.
The others, further up the table leaned in, anxious to hear this. Shelley shrunk in on herself. She hadn’t even decided if she was doing it yet. How could she pretend to be a sex addict when she wasn’t even a David Schwimmer?
‘Erm, it involves being away for a few weeks, going undercover …’ Shelley began, hoping to keep it vague.
‘Undercover as what?’ Karen asked.
Shelley’s phone buzzed again, offering an escape route.
I h8 prties, wanna cum to mine instead and shag till dawn?
Shelley flipped the phone shut and turned to Briony. ‘What have you been telling him?’
Briony blinked innocently. ‘Who?’
‘Right, that’s it,’ Shelley said finally, pouring herself a large drink. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m getting the hell away from London, away from Gavin the pervert, Aidan the sex fiend and you bunch of unsympathetic, unamusing nymphomaniacs. God alone knows what I’ll find at the sex addiction clinic Aidan’s booked me into, but I doubt they can be any more obsessed with knobbing than you lot.’
And with that, she drained the wine, grabbed her bag and walked out, but not before she heard Freya screeching behind her.
‘Sex addiction clinic! Old maid’s clinic, more like. What a joke!’
‘Sorry about last night, Shell,’ Briony said the next morning. ‘We took it a bit too far. We were only teasing.’
‘It’s fine,’ Shelley replied, smiling at her across the debris covering the sitting-room floor. It looked like rooms in films when the hero returns to find mysterious agents have turned the place upside down looking for a secret diary. Something had happened here last night involving at least two men and an electrical device. Shelley had woken to hear crashing, giggling and the occasional screech. Well used to this, she’d stuffed her ears with two sets of earplugs and turned on Classic FM. Even so, after the wall behind her head started wobbling in synchronism with someone getting a firm rogering she began to wonder if she shouldn’t have gone to Gavin’s after all.
‘Are you going to be writing about this, er, encounter?’ Shelley asked as Briony buttered some toast for her.
Briony snorted. ‘God no. Neither of them was very inventive. I had to finish myself off in the end. Literally.’
Over coffee, and trying to ignoring the gentle snoring from one of the men behind the sofa. Shelley fired up her BlackBerry and checked her mail. As she’d hoped there was a message from Aidan.
‘He’s sent me my cover story,’ she told Briony who’d come to join her. Briony eagerly peered over Shelley’s shoulder at the tiny screen. The girls read for a while, Shelley scrolling. Aidan hadn’t gone into too much depth but nonetheless had included a small amount of quite raunchy background information.
‘Hmmm, interesting that Aidan would think this sort of thing when he thinks of you.’
Shelley was to tell the psychologists at the clinic that she was a nurse with a tendency to hop into bed with her patients. That she had some kind of deep-seated urge not only to nurse sick men back to health, but to nurse them to orgasm too. Not just patients either, doctors, other nurses, anyone vaguely connected with the medical profession. Aidan was acting as her concerned brother trying to save her sanity as well as her career after a complaint had been received from her previous hospital.
Aidan promised more details later. In the meantime, she was to make her way to the clinic, start getting some sizzling real-life stories and e-mailing them back to the office via her BlackBerry.
‘Shell,’ Briony said softly, from behind her left shoulder.
‘Yes?’ Shelley replied, waiting for the snide remark.
‘I think you’re going to be brilliant at this.’
Shelley turned around to look at her friend, expecting to find her suppressing a sarcastic cackle. But Briony returned her gaze levelly. ‘I mean it, Shell. You’re a great writer, a great journalist.’
‘Thanks Brie,’ Shelley replied filling up a bit. ‘That means a lot. I’d made up my mind to do it anyway, but it helps to know I have some support. I’m leaving today in fact. I won’t be back for a couple of weeks.’
Briony smiled. ‘That’s probably just as well, really. You don’t want to hang around here too long.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I may have texted Gavin last night and told him you liked it … er, you know, in the backdoor. I was drunk!’ she added, by way of explanation.
Shelley paused for a moment, and then leapt at Briony over the back of the sofa, knocking her over. The man behind the sofa was woken by two women crashing on top of him, but not in a good way.
Chapter Four
Shelley took a train out to Northampton, then jumped in a taxi to the gates of the centre, which was somewhere near the border with Warwickshire. She stared thoughtfully at the discreet plaque on the right fence post as the driver turned in the road and drove off.
‘Fresh Paths’ was all the plaque said. This was the place. An Edwardian manor house set in two-hundred acres of sprawling countryside. It was a grey spring day and the daffodils were well past their best, standing slightly flaccid, petals turning brown.
Shelley shrugged, hefted her case and crunched her way along the gravel path towards her new beginning.
Shelley’s first sexual experience of any account had happened at school. Her friend Rhianna had told her Tom Broachfield fancied her and would she be at all interested in meeting him at lunchtime behind the toilet block. Rhianna was to come too, with her boyfriend, Rod. Though perhaps not the place you might first consider as a love den, the toilets had the advantage of being underused, due to the smell, as well as being out of sight of the school buildings. The bike shed was otherwise engaged, being the place to go for illicit smoking.
Shelley had gone along out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity, as well as loyalty to her friend. The boys were duly waiting for them behind the shed, looking nervous.
‘All right?’ they said.
Rhianna and Rod got right down to business, having dispensed with the formalities on a previous occasion. Shelley sat next to Tom and tried not to listen to the thick glooping sounds coming from the snogging couple. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, and neither, as it turned out, did Tom. Eventually he hissed in a sort of ‘Oh-sod-it-I’m-going-in’ kind of way and made a lunge at Shelley. As she was facing forwards, and made no effort to turn to meet the kiss, he ended up planting a smacker half on her cheek and half on her lip. She sat, stunned. Then he sort of grabbed her face, twisted it in a way supposed to be sensual, but more clammy in effect, and managed to plant one on her lips, which she kept firmly closed.
This went on for some time, and then the bell went. Shelley left, feeling a bit underwhelmed.
‘You’ll be fine next time,’ Rhianna assured her as they walked back to double maths. ‘So do you fancy him then?’
Shelley hadn’t even considered this. Was she supposed to? She liked boys, at least, boys in magazines, and on the telly. The thought of wanting to kiss one of the ones in her class seemed a bit different though. These boys were real, not fantasies. It was as though someone had just told you had to marry your brother.
‘S’pose,’ she replied.
Shelley walked in to the grand, Regency-style reception area and was greeted by one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, standing behind a counter. He had madly stylish hair, loose sculpted curls, and wore a blue Paul Smith shirt with the top button undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He also looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen him on the centre’s website?
‘Hello,’ he said,
smiling broadly at her. ‘I’m Cian.’
‘Hello, Cian,’ Shelley replied. ‘I’m Shelley and I’m here for the Sex Addiction programme.’
And then, extraordinarily, the man winked at her. ‘I bet you are, my darling,’ he said, rather suggestively, and then looked at her breasts. ‘Ready for your examination?’
This didn’t seem right. Surely the last person you need on the counter at a sex clinic is Casanova’s less-reserved brother.
‘Mr O’Connor!’ A voice shouted from the other side of the entrance hall. ‘I’ve told you not to talk to the other patients yet, and get out from behind there. That’s for staff only.’
‘Sorry!’ Cian giggled and winked at Shelley again.
The owner of the voice arrived, a short, blonde lady of indeterminate age carrying a clipboard and with her hair in a tight bun. The dowdy suit wasn’t just snug on her, it was tight in all the wrong places, making her torso look like a collection of over-filled water-balloons held together by a woollen sack and secured with tightened belts.
‘Verity Parrish,’ the lady said, proffering a hand.
Shelley shook it and smiled. ‘Shelley Carter,’ she said.
‘Of course, you’re the last to arrive,’ Verity said, ticking something off on her clipboard.
‘Of course? Am I late?’ Shelley asked in alarm.
‘Not at all, everyone else was early, that’s all, must be doubly keen to get on with it, I suppose.’ She frowned at Shelley, eyes seeming to ask a question.
‘Me too!’ Shelley said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Let’s beat this damn addiction.’
‘Leave your bag here. The porter will take it up to your room. You need to just pop along to see Dr Jones, who will chat with you and ask you to sign a couple of forms, and then we’ll see you in the Mounting Room for an introductory session at three sharp.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Shelley said. ‘Did you say the Mounting Room?’
Verity gave her a stern look. ‘Oh dear. I can see we’ll have our work cut out with you. First floor, room 103,’ she said and walked off.
Shelley trudged up the sweeping staircase. Behind her a tubby woman in a tabard stomped out of a side door, saw Shelley’s bag and sighed. ‘Oh fan-fucking-tastic, another pervert’s arrived.’
Shelley inspected the fire-escape plan on the wall, trying to memorise the layout of the centre. The building was composed of three floors, the conference, dining and treatment rooms were on the ground floor along with the kitchens. The first floor held offices and staff quarters. The second floor was mostly patient accommodation. Shelley counted twenty of these en-suite rooms in the building’s two wings.
In addition to the main building, there were outbuildings including the drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, a pool and gym complex and some sheds and what-not. She had already noted the entire complex was enclosed by a twelve-foot wall, useful for keeping people in as well as out. Shelley started to wonder whether Aidan’s plan wasn’t just to stick her here out of the way while he got on with re-organising the magazine. Why hadn’t he just fired her? Did he want to force her to resign, giving up any redundancy she might be entitled to?
She stumped down the neutrally-decorated corridor, feet silent on the plush carpet and reached room 103. She knocked.
‘Come in!’ a voice called from inside.
Shelley found the director of the centre, Dr Janet Jones, sitting behind an enormous desk almost empty apart from a tiny laptop and a single sheet of paper. Shelley judged she might be in her late fifties, though perhaps younger as the menopause might explain her florid complexion. She had light brown hair, probably dyed.
‘Shelley Carter?’ Dr Jones asked. ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly, without waiting for a response.
Shelley did as she was told.
‘So,’ Dr Jones said, pulling a manila folder out of a drawer. She peered into it.
‘You’re a nurse?’
‘Yes,’ Shelley replied. She had been worrying she might get found out, but if this was the level of the questioning, she had no concerns.
‘You have a penchant for sleeping with patients.’ Dr Jones said matter-of-factly.
‘And doctors, and other nurses,’ Shelley replied.
‘You are bisexual?’ Dr Jones inquired. ‘The file doesn’t make it clear.’
‘Err yeah, sure. ‘Shelley said, realising she was making it all up anyway. ‘In for a penny.’
‘Who’s Penny? A lover?’ Dr Jones inquired, an eyebrow raised.
‘No, just an expression,’ Shelley replied.
Dr Jones pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Nurse Smith, could you come to Dr Jones’ office for an examination please?’
Shelley froze. Examination? Was this to be a physical examination? Worse yet, was she to be searched? Suddenly the BlackBerry in her inside jacket pocket felt enormous, she was sure Dr Jones must be able to see the bulge.
‘It’s a little stuffy in here,’ Shelley said. ‘Do you mind if I remove my jacket?’
‘Not at all,’ Dr Jones said absently, still reading through Shelley’s file.
Shelley stood, took off her jacket and walked over to the hat stand in the corner, she popped the jacket on a hook and sat back down just as the door opened. The plump nurse came in, saw Shelley and rolled her eyes.
Dr Jones looked up. ‘Thank you Sandra, please could you …’ and she waved airily at Shelley.
‘Behind that screen please,’ Sandra said. Shelley did as she asked, terrified she’d notice the jacket and want to check that too.
Behind the screen, Sandra looked her in the eye and whispered, ‘You’d better not look like you’re enjoying this.’
Shelley blinked by way of response.
‘Cos most of your lot do, you know. I’m not here to give you cheap thrills. Now turn around and spread your legs.’
Shelley was too shocked to do anything but obey. Sandra had one of those authoritative voices possessed only by senior nurses and royalty. Shelley heard Sandra’s knees crack and then felt rough hands running up her leg. She found herself wishing she’d shaved. As Sandra’s hand slid between her legs, Shelley tensed and was sure the nurse must realise what she was feeling was the exact opposite of someone enjoying the experience. Surely she’d be found out.
Sandra ran her hands up Shelley’s sides, cupped her breasts and patted down her back.
‘She’s clear,’ the nurse said and stumped off. Shelley straightened herself and went back to Dr Jones’s desk.
Dr Jones suddenly sighed, as if tired of the whole affair. Shelley noticed her eyes flicker to the desk drawer. She pushed a couple of forms over to Shelley. ‘Would you mind signing these?’
‘What are they?’ Shelley asked. Not that she really cared. Aidan would sort out any legal difficulties she got herself into. He’d promised her and though she wasn’t at all happy with her assignment she trusted him to not let her get into any serious difficulties.
‘One’s a Section Four voluntary admission form, the other is for insurance,’ Dr Jones replied, speaking slowly, now openly staring at the desk drawer. Shelley felt as if she were intruding.
She signed the forms and pushed them back.
‘Right, good luck and all that,’ Dr Jones said vaguely. Shelley realised she was expected to leave now.
‘Right. Am I supposed to go to the Mounting Room now?’
Dr Jones peered at her intently, nodding slightly. ‘The Mountain Room, I think.’
‘Ah. That makes more sense,’ Shelley replied, relieved.
‘Downstairs towards the back of the building, follow the signs,’ Dr Jones said as Shelley grabbed her jacket and left.
‘My name is Shelley …’ Shelley was saying. Seven expectant faces looked at her interestedly, urging her on. She paused and looked around at the room. It said ‘Sales Conference’ to her. Bland décor, boring furniture, tedious pictures on the wall. And the inevitable brainstorming pad on an easel.
Verity Parrish coughed beside her.
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‘… and I’m a sex addict,’ Shelley finished.
She shrugged and looked around at the group. Everyone wore a name tag. To Shelley’s right sat an attractive if slightly used-looking lady, probably in her forties, called Rose. Shelley vaguely recognised her, she thought, from some long-forgotten tabloid story.
To Shelley’s left was a smooth forty-plus man; his name was Will. Facing her, from left to right, were Abigail, Cliff, Cheryl, Cian, and Larry. Verity hadn’t done formal introductions yet. The idea was that they were all supposed to give a little bit of a self-introduction before the main session got underway. During the course of the next week, each would have to give a full and frank account of why they were here. This would be a no-holds barred descent into the excesses that had led to them deciding they needed help. The magazine wasn’t really interested in how these people might be helped, or what happened to them later. Vixen was after the salacious ‘before’ details, not the more worthy but duller ‘after’ picture.
Shelley tried to inspect her fellow inmates without making it obvious she was doing so. The others all seemed to be doing the same, apart from Larry, who was staring out the window. Shelley reckoned he was the only one younger than her.
Shelley was first to speak that day – she’d agreed to that on condition she’d be last to give her full story, for which she was grateful. She figured she’d have till Friday before she’d have to make her ‘confessional’. The thought of it was already making her nervous. She was rubbish at lying and it wasn’t as if she had any appropriate life experiences to draw on. She was supposed to be a sex-obsessed nurse who’d spent the last eighteen months in Australia. Instead she was a sex-starved journalist who’d spent the last eighteen years in Clapham.
‘Just a little about yourself for now, please Shelley, you don’t need to go into detail just yet,’ Verity said in an encouraging, and slightly patronising, tone.
Shelley took a deep breath and tried to remember the cover story Aidan had put together for her. ‘Er,’ she began. ‘I’m a nurse, and I got in trouble because I slept with a patient.’ She saw Cian nodding at her, grinning; he gave her the thumbs up. ‘Actually, I slept with more than one,’ she said, causing Cliff and Cheryl to prick up their ears. ‘… and also some doctors …’ Will stroked his chin and looked at her legs, ‘… and some nurses …’ Rose raised an eyebrow, ‘… and once a video of me ended up on the internet,’ Larry sat bolt upright, ‘… and then I was found tied to a hospital gurney with some straps, stark naked.’ This last brought interest from Abigail. ‘… and I had to leave the hospital in disgrace.’ She went on. ‘My brother paid for me to come here: he’s trying to stop me dragging the family name through the mud.’
Confessions Page 4