I am roundly ignored as much as possible, except when she drags me into the conversation.
You know when you’re chatting to someone quite happily, and then they bring up how well their dog is doing after the rubber band was surgically removed from its bowels?
Yeah. That.
By the time an hour and a half has gone by, I’m frankly amazed I haven’t been given a pat on the head and a dog biscuit.
Erica keeps buying me Peroni beers, though, so I can’t complain too much, even though this is more or less akin to having my water bowl refilled every once in a while.
The chances of me meeting a woman with which to test Callie Donnelly’s thesis on getting over heartbreak are becoming less and less likely. Nobody wants to kiss the pet dog, do they?
Colour me totally surprised, then, when I’m suddenly confronted by Vanity.
Vanity is the name of a person dressed in a very tight black cocktail dress, rather than a general description of the crowd of people here gathered, I hasten to add. Though, come to think about it . . .
Vanity is tall, willowy, raven-haired and ever so exclusive. She’s also way, waaaaaaaaaay out of my league. The odds of me pulling her are about as high as the bar stool I’m sat on becoming self-aware and running for prime minister.
That isn’t stopping my boss having a good go, though. ‘Ollie, I’d like you to meet Vanity O’Hare,’ she says. ‘Vanity is a good friend from my yoga class.’
I nod dumbly.
‘This is Oliver Sweet, Vanity,’ Erica tells her. ‘He writes for me.’
Vanity looks suitably unimpressed by this.
‘He’s probably my most talented member of staff. Has a real way with words.’
It’s clear that Vanity thinks having a way with words is about as important to her continued happiness as the economic outlook for the nation of Azerbaijan.
‘He’s the one who’s behind “Dumped Actually”,’ Erica tells her in a confident tone.
At this, Vanity’s interest immediately perks up.
Aha. Erica may have found an inroad here . . . whether I like it or not.
Suddenly, Vanity’s attention is squarely fixed on me.
‘You wrote “Dumped Actually”?’ she asks me, in an excited tone.
‘Er . . . yes. That’s me.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Oh God, I love it! You’re so funny!’ Vanity’s exquisitely manicured hand touches me lightly on the chest.
What?? What?? What’s happening here??
Go back to sleep, Mr Penis.
What?? No! Something has just happened!
No, it hasn’t.
Oh yes, it bloody has! She just touched you! The dark-haired beauty with the million-dollar figure just touched you!
It doesn’t mean anything.
Bollocks it doesn’t! Don’t screw this up! I’ve never been anywhere near someone like this before.
She’s not going to be interested in having sex with us, you cretin. If she’s read ‘Dumped Actually’, she’ll know about you being hard around a baby deer.
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.
No, I didn’t think you had. Now go back to sleep.
‘Ollie’s work is keeping Actual Life afloat, Vanity. I really couldn’t do without him,’ Erica says in a gushing manner, before she squeezes my arm gently.
What’s going on here with all this female touching?
I’m starting to feel like an avocado being inspected before purchase.
‘Oh. I’m so glad you have someone like this working with you, Erica,’ Vanity replies. ‘You know how we all adore you and your website. It’s great to see it doing well again.’
‘Thank you, Vanity!’ Erica says, continuing to gush. Erica Hilton gushing is a slightly strange thing to behold. It’s like I’m with a totally different person to the one I’m used to.
‘Your break-up sounds like it was a really hard thing to deal with,’ Vanity tells me, eyes full of sympathy.
‘Yes. Yes, it was,’ I reply, starting to feel uncomfortable.
. . . sorry, more uncomfortable.
I may be okay with writing about my disastrous love life, but talking about it with someone I’ve only just met is another thing entirely.
‘I know how you feel,’ Vanity says. ‘I’ve been through much the same thing myself.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,’ I tell her, a bit perplexed. Who the hell would dump this woman?
Vanity moves a little closer to me and touches me on the chest again in a playful manner. ‘Thanks, Ollie. It’s lovely to meet someone who knows what it’s like. You’ve really made me feel better about everything.’
‘Oh. Okay. Pleased to hear it.’
She cocks her head slightly to one side. ‘Is anyone helping you feel better?’
‘Chas! Chas Molineux!’ Erica suddenly exclaims, pointing a finger towards one swarthy-looking individual across the bar. ‘You owe me a cocktail, you naughty boy!’ Erica turns back to Vanity and me. ‘Excuse me, you two. I have a free drink awaiting me over there.’ She gives me a meaningful look. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’
Oh good lord.
Oi! Oi! What was that??
It was nothing, Mr Penis!
Yes, it was, you lying git! Erica leered. She bloody well leered at us!!
So?
What do you mean, so?? She thinks we’re in here!!
Don’t be ridiculous. This type of thing doesn’t happen to us. One-night stands with beautiful women don’t happen to us. It’s just not the way we’re built.
It might not be the way you’re built, but it’s what I was put on this earth to do, you ignoramus!
‘Shall we go and sit at a quiet table in the corner?’ Vanity suggests as she watches Erica walk over to the bearer of her free cocktail. ‘We can talk more easily there.’
See?? See?? We’re totally in, here!!
I have a suspicion that my penis may actually be right on this occasion. Unbelievable as it may seem, Vanity is giving me extremely strong signals. Ones that even I am able to understand.
An instant feeling of deep regret and shame pulses through me. For some reason, I inexplicably feel that if I go off with this incredible-looking woman, I will somehow be betraying Samantha.
It’s an incredibly silly thing to think. It makes no rational sense whatsoever. But it’s still right there at the centre of my mind, unwilling to go away.
No!! No, you don’t!! You’re not going to ruin this for me!! I need this after what happened with Bambi, you bastard!! Smile at her, agree and let’s get this show on the road!!
For a moment I am frozen in place, not knowing what to do. Then I remember that I have a story to concoct about this evening . . . so I had better at least make an attempt to do something worthy of the write-up.
This gets me going.
‘Okay, that sounds like a great idea,’ I tell Vanity, in a slightly shaky voice.
She takes my hand. ‘Great. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about,’ she says, voice now huskier than Lapland.
As she leads me into a dark corner of Manucode, which is relatively empty compared to the rest of the bar, I spot Erica looking at me with a self-satisfied expression on her face. I return it with one that is partly grateful and partly scared to death.
I don’t see much more of Erica that evening. Vanity holds my complete attention for a good hour over in the corner. The conversation ranges around a variety of subjects, but I would have a hard time relaying any of them to you now, because Vanity is quite a mesmerising person to be with. Her voice is melodic, her smile is captivating and she smells like thirteen kinds of wonderful. You try remembering what you’re talking about when your opposite number in a conversation is like that.
I think I just about manage to hold up my end of the chat (whatever the hell we talked about), but it’s touch and go, to be honest. Mostly, I just try to avoid gazing at her cleavage too much. This is slightly more difficult than inventing a perpetual motion machine out of three bott
le caps and a Smarties tube.
By the time she asks me if I’d like to come back to her place for a nightcap, I am in such a state of utter bewilderment that it takes me a moment to get my mouth to work. This simply doesn’t happen to people like me. Incredibly beautiful, exclusive women do not invite us back for a nightcap. We get to see them once every so often going past at speed in a Ferrari. If we’re very lucky, we might get splashed by their puddle water.
‘Er . . . yeah. That’d be cool,’ I say, draining the last of my Peroni with a slightly trembling hand. I’m still not sure I’m ready for this kind of thing, but I’m pot committed now, so had better get my arse in gear.
Vanity then leads me out of Manucode, past Carlo, who just about manages to conceal his amazement that someone like Vanity is leaving with someone like me.
We then walk down the road about two hundred yards.
‘Are we going to call a cab?’ I ask her.
She smiles and delves into her cleavage, pulling out a single silver door key. ‘No need. We’re already here.’
Well, of course Vanity would live close to the exclusive club, in an extraordinarily expensive Georgian townhouse . . . What was I thinking?
Okay, maybe it’s only the ground floor flat of the Georgian townhouse, but if it costs less than a million quid, I’d be flabbergasted.
Vanity enjoys the minimalist look.
Once we’re past the ornate frontage of her flat, we enter a world of clean lines and simple colours.
There’s a lot of black in here, along with an equal amount of light grey, some flashy red, and a bit of white. Everything is colour-coordinated to within an inch of its life. The black couch looks like it was made just to sit on top of that red rug – which, come to think about it, it probably was. Vanity seems the type to enjoy bespoke.
The rest of the flat is similarly decked out. Vanity obviously appreciates the same kind of artwork as Manucode, as there are some very similar paintings on her light-grey walls.
The kitchen is all gleaming steal and marble counter tops.
The whole place is a good 483 per cent cooler than I could ever be.
The only thing coordinated in my flat is the coffee stain on the carpet that matches my dusty, second-hand Ikea TV stand.
‘Would you like a gin and tonic?’ Vanity asks me as she pads lightly over to one of her gleaming kitchen cupboards.
‘Yeah. That’d be good,’ I tell her, still looking around the kitchen with wide eyes.
‘Okay. Go make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right in.’
I do as I’m told, and go back into the lounge, where I sit on the black couch and try my hardest not to touch anything. I especially avoid going anywhere near what looks like a brand-new ultra-thin TV that’s hung on the wall in front of me. It looks like it cost a year’s wages, and I don’t think Vanity would be very happy if I—
OH MY GOOD GOD IN HEAVEN.
Vanity has come into the lounge with two tall glasses of gin and tonic. She has also lost her dress somewhere, the poor girl – hence my blasphemous exclamation.
All Vanity is wearing now is a pair of black hold-up stockings, a black G-string, a plain black bra and a smile that says she’s getting precisely the reaction she wanted.
She sashays over to me with a wicked smile on her face and hands me my drink. ‘You don’t mind me looking like this, do you?’ she asks.
This is rather like my bank manager asking me if I mind him putting an extra one hundred thousand pounds in my bank account.
I shake my head very slowly. I’m slightly worried if I do it any quicker, my tongue will fall out.
Vanity sits down and looks at me with smoky eyes as she takes a sip of her gin. ‘I hope I haven’t shocked you,’ she says, knowing full well that she has, ‘but I’m not the type of girl who likes to beat around the bush.’
‘No. That’s fine!’ I reply. ‘I’m not, either.’ I blink. ‘Not that I’m a girl. But what I mean is that I don’t like to beat around it, either. The bush, that is. No beating it for me. Absolutely not.’
I drain half of the gin in one gulp.
Vanity smiles and takes the glass out of my hand. She places it alongside hers on the black coffee table next to the couch, and straddles me in one smooth movement.
‘Why don’t you carry me to the bedroom, Ollie? We’ve talked a lot this evening, and now I want to do something else with you.’
‘Okay,’ I reply in a feeble voice.
This is insane. Completely and utterly insane. I’m in the house of an absolutely gorgeous woman, and I’m now 100 per cent sure she wants to have sex with me.
With me.
This is the type of thing you’d expect to find happening in one of those romantic movies I spent my youth watching, not here in the real world. You know, one of the ones where the boy from the wrong side of town gets to fall in love with the girl from the right side. Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’ would most definitely be on the soundtrack album.
And yet . . . here we are. This is actually happening. This is a thing that is happening to Oliver Sweet in real life. No Billy Joel necessary.
And maybe if something as unbelievable as this can occur, then something equally unbelievable could come from it. Maybe being with Vanity could help me get over Samantha. Maybe being with her could make things so much better for me. Maybe Vanity could be ‘the one’ – instead of Samantha. That sounds like a good story, doesn’t it? A story that hopefully starts with some lovely sex.
This really is all too much for me.
So is trying to stand up with Vanity clutching at me like a spider monkey on a fig tree. I have a go at it, but when it becomes quite clear that I can barely lift my bottom off the couch, Vanity climbs off me and instead pulls me to my feet. So much for showing her what a big, strong alpha male I am.
Oh, who am I kidding? She’s read a story about me getting my arsehole waxed. I’m sure she’s under no illusions.
Vanity then leads me into her bedroom, where a red bed, light-grey walls and a black carpet await. She sits herself on the bed, yanks me towards her and starts to unbuckle my belt.
It suddenly hits me that I’m about to have sex with someone for the first time since Samantha. It’s a surreal and bizarre thought. I’m also struck by that irrational sense of betrayal again – but I manage to push it aside, as Vanity has just reached into my boxer shorts.
Right, now you shut up and go sit in the corner while I get my mojo on.
Okay, Mr Penis.
Good boy.
I gratefully let him take over. It’s so much easier when you just think with your penis. This is why men tend to do it ninety per cent of the time.
Vanity stops rummaging, and instead decides to peel me like an orange. Before I know it, I am completely naked. I haven’t been undressed this fast since I wandered into the kitchen at the age of six covered in dog shit from the Alsatian next door.
Vanity appraises my naked form and, by golly, this girl should be an actress. The way she gazes at my body with hungry lust is quite incredible. I am not an unhealthy person physically – but neither am I what anyone would consider ‘buff’. A slight paunch and a distinct lack of pectoral muscles are not things that people usually gaze at with hungry lust. Mild interest, possibly. But never hungry lust.
Still, that’s what Vanity is doing . . . and now she’s grabbing hold of my penis, so I am rendered instantly unable to think straight – and will be completely incapable of relaying my thoughts for the next few minutes.
Please enjoy whatever light music you may have to hand while this goes on.
. . .
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
‘Uuuuuuhhhh,’ I moan in ecstasy as Vanity comes up for air. This evening really has taken a most unexpectedly pleasant turn. I will have to send Callie Donnelly some flowers.
Vanity looks up at me, still with that hungry expression in her eyes. ‘Will you do something for me, Ollie?’ she asks
.
This is the perfect time to ask a man to do anything – up to and including handing over both kidneys.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply, nodding vigorously.
Vanity smiles and leans back over the bed to her white bedside cabinet, from which she pulls a pair of silky red-and-black boxer shorts. She holds them out to me. ‘Put these on for me?’
Okay. This is a bit strange, but the girl can apparently breathe through her ears, so I’m not going to argue.
I slip the underwear on, and it’s immediately apparent they are meant for a man who has no issues with his body image. They are so tight and clingy that you’d have to be very confident in the size of your junk to get away with them. You’d also need a fine set of abdominals parked above them to pull them off properly. I have neither, so slightly resemble an overstuffed sausage.
‘Oh God,’ Vanity says breathily, caressing the pants and my penis through them. ‘Lie down on the bed for me,’ she orders.
‘Okay.’
I do so, somewhat awkwardly, as the tight silky boxer shorts don’t allow for much freedom of movement.
Vanity then climbs on top of me and starts to grind like she’s making a loaf of bread from scratch.
If she goes at it much harder, the static electricity between her G-string and these boxers is likely to give us both third-degree burns.
My penis, so happy a few moments ago, is starting to get a little concerned about both the build-up of friction and how much he’s being squashed.
Vanity is having a whale of a time, though, so I grit my teeth and try to enjoy myself.
She continues to slide up and down for a while longer, before gasping and looking at me with the kind of raw, animalistic sexual aggression that I have only ever seen before in my dreams.
I wish she’d get back to stroking, actually. All this grinding is starting to give me chafed thighs.
‘Would you wear something else for me, Ollie?’ she asks, one hand snaking into areas that are guaranteed to get her a positive answer.
I nod dumbly, and watch as she leans over me towards the bedside cabinet again and pulls out a cardboard mask.
Right. This is starting to get downright peculiar.
The mask is one of those photographic jobs you can order online, of either celebrities or of people you know – if you have a photo of them good enough to use, that is.
Dumped, Actually Page 13