Date three: Charlie I was more than halfway down my second gigantic cocktail when the waitress finally showed us over to our table. Hakkasan was throbbing; absurdly chic girls sipped cocktails at the bar with men who looked like they’d been made in a Los Angeles factory, while small, efficient waiters shimmied between the densely packed tables wielding massive trays of steaming dim sum. I’d been here before I met Michael and had liked it but tonight, dressed immaculately and sitting across the table from a man who made Michelangelo’s David look like a dog’s bottom, I really got it. So far, so good. He’d turned up at my flat to pick me up like a proper gentleman and had sat at my kitchen table, chatting easily while I’d run around my room with hairspray and Marks & Spencer tights. Then a posh taxi had arrived, swished us silently into town, and Charlie had ordered exquisite cocktails. This was a Good Date. When we sat down at the table, Charlie ordered wine without consulting me and then, while I tried to decide whether I found this sexy or annoying, he leaned over and kissed me full on the mouth. Definitely not annoying. Sexy. He held me there for a minute, staring at me at point-blank range. Then he let me go and we leaned back into our seats, me flushed, him infuriatingly casual. ‘Well, then. Good evening, Mr Swift,’ I murmured, in as alluring a voice as I could muster. It was no good: I fancied him desperately. Everyone did. Even the bloody waitress was ignoring me and fawning over Charlie. ‘Hello to you, too, young lady,’ he said, leaning in and twirling a bit of my hair between his finger and thumb. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot this week. Do you have any idea how attractive you are?’ ‘Well, I’m better than Roseanne Barr, I suppose,’ was the best I could do. Charlie roared with laughter and I noticed two girls, dressed like high-class prostitutes, staring at him and whispering. I leaned back and poked my breasts out in case it helped. Charlie was clearly in demand. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve always had a thing for Roseanne. The thought of screwing a larger lady has always given me a bit of a hard-on.’ Ah. Less good. Did he favour the larger lady? (Was that why he was out with me?) ‘Have you listened to my radio show at all this week?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Shame. I dedicated something to you.’ ‘Oh, my God! What?’ (It had been ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ by Kylie. Bit weird, but nice.) ‘Well, you’ll never know now, Fran. Tell me, how long before I get to take your clothes off?’ I blushed. ‘I’m not sure. It depends how well you behave yourself, Charlie Swift.’ ‘Really? OK, well, how about this for now?’ He leaned in. ‘How’s about I put my hand inside your knickers – purple lace, I noticed, very nice – and then make you come?’ I nearly came, handsfree. ‘CHARLIE!’ The first set of dim sum arrived. ‘JESUS!’ ‘No relation. Sorry.’ I was bright red as I picked up my chopsticks. And then, maybe because I’d now drunk two yards of cocktail, I said, ‘Actually, they’re blue lace. And if I push my chair in just a little bit further you’ll be able to do just that.’ He groaned quietly, and muttered, ‘Please, don’t do that to me.’ ‘Your fault,’ I said, with affected nonchalance, picking up a steaming prawn parcel expertly. Less expertly, I dropped it just as it got to my mouth and it splatted into a tiny bowl of something brown, which splashed all over my dress. I’d gone for monochrome: a thick cream dress with black tights and black heels. Now I looked like a Friesian cow. Charlie laughed but his eyes glazed over slightly. ‘I need you to know how much I want to be inside you right now,’ he said, without bothering to lean in. ‘Well, tough. You’ll have to wait. Besides, we haven’t even talked yet,’ I said firmly. Having a man this good-looking begging me for sex was the best therapy I could ask for. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt sexy with a man. With Michael it had just become … well, normal, I supposed. Charlie put his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine, let’s talk. What do you want to talk about? How about the general election? Who’s going to win? See? I can do clever stuff, too, y’know.’ ‘Um, the Conservatives?’ I replied doubtfully. ‘I hope not but it’s looking pretty likely. Mmm. How quickly do you come if you’re doing a sixty-nine?’ ‘Charlie!’ I said, reddening. He was impossible. I tried to cover up my excitement by taking a large gulp of my cocktail. Trying to guzzle every last drop, I tipped the glass and a clump of passionfruit seeds slid out on to my lap. I froze. ‘Fuck.’ Charlie leaned over and stared at them. ‘Charlie! I look like I’ve just made frogspawn!’ I gazed beseechingly at him. ‘What shall I do?’ He got up and walked round the table. ‘You just remove it, that’s what,’ he replied, taking a napkin and gently rubbing it off. When he deliberately rubbed the tissue in a frogspawn free zone, I gasped. He studied me with narrowed eyes. No, no, no. No. I was not going to have some man trying to bring me off in the middle of a restaurant with a napkin covered in passion fruit seeds. Not without some effort, I made him remove his hand. ‘Stop it. Now. Sit down.’ ‘Sure. Sorry.’ He sat down. ‘Actually, Fran, I’m really sorry. I’m coming on far too strong with all of this sex stuff. Let’s chat and have dinner, OK? It’s just unusual for me to fancy someone and like them at the same time. I’m a bit overwhelmed!’ I peered at his face and suddenly he seemed so earnest, so genuine, that I leaned over and kissed him. ‘That’s a lovely thing to say,’ I said. ‘Shall we start again?’ He looked eager and relieved. ‘Yes! Thank you. So, I’m Charlie, I work in music and I’m thirty-seven. Tell me all about you. From the beginning!’ By the time we’d finished dinner and got through a bottle of wine, three Chinese vodkas and another cocktail back at the bar, I was nicely drunk. ‘Let’s go dancing!’ Charlie yelled in my ear, above the shriek of the beautiful people. ‘OK! I need to get changed first, though,’ I said, pointing at my soy- and seed-splattered dress. ‘How about we go somewhere in Camden? We can get a taxi and I’ll run in to get changed quickly.’ He nodded and paid the bill. I felt totally euphoric: I was with the hottest man in London who didn’t just want to have it off with me, he actually fancied me. Michael and I had never gone dancing, really: he’d always said he found it a bit embarrassing and distasteful. In the taxi Charlie and I snogged like the world was going to end. He was an exceptionally good kisser and had a way of handling me that left me absolutely weak with desire. Sort of firm and soft but rough and with just the right suggestion of dirtiness. Just go dancing, go home alone, and have sex another time, OK? said the voice of reason. Remembering the Amazon in my pants, I took note. We stopped briefly at my flat. I left Charlie in the taxi and ran in, throwing my dress off. I caught sight of myself in my underwear and stilettos as I sprinted past the mirror. I stopped and looked. For once, I felt really sexy. And suddenly Charlie was in the room, crashing through the door, running towards me. ‘But the taxi …’ ‘Shut up,’ he said, standing behind me in the mirror and running his hands roughly over my breasts and belly. I gasped, shoving myself backwards into him. He kissed my neck and shoulders roughly, undoing my bra. My nipples were rock hard and he ground himself against me as he touched them. Still behind me, he surveyed me in the mirror with his right hand still on my belly and his left on my breasts. ‘Fuck, you are too hot for words,’ he said, plunging his hand down inside my knickers. His fingers worked me quickly, and within seconds I was gasping, my head thrown back on his shoulder, an orgasm ripping through me as he bit hungrily into my neck. He spun me round and threw me on the bed, flinging away my shoes and pulling off my tights. I lay completely naked while he stood above me, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. It dropped to the floor. I was twitching all over, completely frantic for him now, desperate for more. Slowly, very slowly, he started to undo his belt, all the time staring at me. I couldn’t take any more. In a second I was up, pulling off his belt, ripping open his trousers, taking him into my mouth. Just before he came he plunged into me. I shoved him even harder into me, losing control as another monstrous orgasm got closer and closer and deliciously closer. I’d never, ever, ever come at the same time as a man before. Not even with Michael. As Charlie rolled off me, breathless, he kissed me hard. ‘You are completely
fucking hot, Fran,’ he gasped. ‘I think I’m going to have to fuck you all night.’ Dazed, I went to the toilet, but within seconds, Charlie was in there too, throwing me into my wet room – quite an appropriate name, in the end – where we started round two. I woke the next morning to a piercing miaow. ‘Shut it, Duke Ellington,’ I croaked, pulling a pillow over my head. I shot a mile high when someone next to me burst out laughing and said, ‘You have a cat called Duke Ellington?’ And there he was. All six magnificent feet of him: Charlie Swift, DJ. Not to mention the best shag I had ever had in my life. He was stretched out with his hands propped under his head, his perfect, disconcertingly tanned body smooth and firm, his quite sizeable manhood on full display. I went red. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from,’ he said, taking my hand and leading it down. In a second he was hard. I started to move my hand but then came another furious miaow and I stopped. I turned, acutely embarrassed, to see Duke Ellington at the door, looking appalled. I tried to shield him from the sight of Charlie’s erection but he just turned and walked away. Slightly guilty, I padded off to feed him, feeling horribly rancid but extremely perky. There was a gorgeous naked man in my flat! Charlie came after me, yawning and stretching. He helped himself to bread and slotted it into the toaster, reaching over to put the kettle on. There was something about a man’s bottom, I thought, as I watched him, that makes him seem somehow defenceless and, well, a bit silly. From the front he’s all face, hair, chest, meat and two veg: powerful, angular, arresting. And yet from the back he’s a bit defenceless and shapeless with two small peachy buttocks. I walked over and hugged him from behind, then felt immediately embarrassed, realizing that this was what I’d do with Michael. I moved away again and sat at the kitchen table. I glanced down at myself. OH, GOD! THE RAINFOREST! My eyes widened with horror, which Charlie saw just as he turned round. ‘That’s quite a muff you’ve got there,’ he said conversationally, putting some toast in front of me. ‘I left it on so that I wouldn’t sleep with you,’ I replied. ‘Don’t forget, after all, that I’m a lesbian.’ He chortled. ‘It’s OK. I managed to find my way around. So, what are you up to today, Fuck-me Fran?’ ‘Excuse me? Fuck-me Fran?’ ‘That’s what you were yelling last night.’ I blushed. ‘Well, I thought I’d go and see my mum, actually. She’s been having a bit of a hard time of late.’ ‘Really?’ he said, through his toast. ‘Sounds bad. When can we meet up next?’ So he wasn’t interested in talking about Mum. Well, fair enough. We’d only just slept together. Perhaps it was a bit early to be talking about future in-laws. ‘Soon,’ I said, eating a piece of his toast and peeping at him from under my eyelashes. This felt amazing! Suddenly the door opened and in walked Stefania. She took in the sight of Charlie and me, naked, munching toast and drinking tea, crossed herself and walked out again. Duke Ellington followed her, keen to get away from the spectacle. ‘Ah, the meditation teacher,’ Charlie observed. ‘Interesting. Well, these alternative types like a bit of nudity, don’t they? Speaking of which, I do, too. Get back into the bedroom this minute, please.’ An hour later, Charlie left. I asked him what he was up to as I went round my room picking up underwear. ‘People to see, things to do,’ he said breezily. ‘I’d like nothing more than to do it again tonight, but needs must.’ He pulled me tightly to him and kissed my forehead. I staggered back into bed, bow-legged and bruised, blushing as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. As I sank down into bed, my phone beeped. My heart leaped: it was Michael again! Franny. You probably hate me but I just want you to know I am sorry. I miss you. Xxx What was this? Did he have cameras rigged up in here or something? I struggled hard not to punch the air. My boy wanted me back! I smirked, trying to drag a ‘Ha! Up yours, Daniels!’ out of myself. But I felt guilty. In spite of everything, Nellie was actually quite nice. And she was clearly in love with Michael. So what was happening? I needed to get to the bottom of this. If I didn’t do so soon I was at risk of texting Michael back and then it’d be game over – I’d be back at square one, staring morbidly at my phone, waiting impotently for a reply. After the Chelsea club shoot I’d banned myself from any further Nellie-stalking – as Dave had pointed out, I could have lost my job using ITN’s equipment for my covert Chelsea mission the other week – but desperate times called for desperate measures. And I knew exactly how, where and when I could carry out one final stalk. It would take place this week. ‘You’re a bloody genius!’ I told Stefania, when I strode into her shed five minutes later. ‘I love the Eight Date Deal! Charlie wants to have loads of sex with me, some bloke called Toni is counting down the days till our date next weekend, there’s a brilliant bloke called Freddy wanting a date with me and Michael is begging me to talk to him behind Nellie’s back! It’s amazing!’ ‘GET OUT!’ she screamed. ‘Hose yourself down! You have been making ze sex all night! Do not touch anysing in my room!’ But she was smiling. Later that day I had a long bath and tried to work out what I wanted from Charlie. He was glamorous, seemingly wealthy, well connected, flashy and stylish, all the things that Michael was not. And that, I was now quite sure, was what I needed. Moreover, he seemed genuinely nice. He’d woken up in the middle of the night and said, ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Mmpfff,’ I’d replied, asleep. ‘Why?’ He kissed me. ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to check. I couldn’t hear you breathing.’ I smiled. ‘I’m alive. Just worn out. Some man broke into my house last night and shagged me till I couldn’t move.’ Charlie chuckled, and kissed me in the dark. ‘You make me laugh,’ he said softly. But who was I trying to fool? It was the sexual chemistry I wanted more of. It was electric. I’d forgotten what it was like to be with someone who excited you in every sense of the word, who thrilled and frightened you in equal measure. When I was eleven I’d started a band in the playground called Fran and the Bitches. I didn’t know what bitches meant, of course, but I knew it was edgy and fierce. And I was a fierce lead singer, a massive attention-seeker, bumping and grinding long before I learned what bumping and grinding actually was, screwing my face up in affected emotion and performing to the (largely uninterested) kids in the playground from atop the green Grundon bins while my bitches jived below me. Daniel Ashcroft, the school hunk, a boy who used actual hair products and kept a picture of Madonna in a locket round his neck, put out a rumour that he wanted to go steady with me after he’d been to one of our lunchtime recitals. For three weeks, that summer, I was his girlfriend. We’d snog each other with our hands between our mouths; we’d exchange gifts (biscuits we’d stolen from our parents’ kitchens) and sometimes we’d sneak off and sit in the evergreen tree behind the kitchens and listen to the dinner ladies slagging off our headmaster while they washed up. He’d solemnly cup my non-existent breast while gazing studiously into the middle distance and I’d cup his arse awkwardly while staring at his face, hoping he might look at me. Those were heavenly times. Everyone knew about me: I was Fran-Daniel’s-girlfriend-and-founder-of-Fran-and-the-Bitches. My stock was up. Then the summer holidays came and, like all good childhood relationships, we forgot about each other for six weeks. Unfortunately for me, Daniel Ashcroft hadn’t forgotten about me temporarily: he’d forgotten about me completely. When we came back to school the following September, he had moved on to Stella Cartwright, who was from a tower block in Bermondsey. She had an earring and a fake tattoo and patent leather shoes. She out-cooled me by a good 400 per cent and Daniel knew it. My stock went down. My Bitches resigned from the band because they were fed up with my spotlight-hogging tendencies and, besides, Stella had offered to audition them for backing-singer roles in her new R&B group, which rehearsed at lunchtime in the car park. I was toast. After two weeks’ wandering around completely on my own, I had to make emergency friends with Crispin Ghanaba, a quiet, studious Ghanaian who was popular with no one in particular because he was far too good at schoolwork to be cool. But Crispin and I had a wonderful time together. We’d talk from the start of lunchtime to the end, making dens in the dust and discussing eleven-y
ear-olds’ politics. I wanted to be Kate Adie, he wanted to go home and take over as president of Ghana. When he was sent to a private school the following term, I was secretly heartbroken. Crispin may have been radically uncool but he was the best boyfriend I’d ever had. So when Daniel Ashcroft tried it on again at the leavers’ disco, I punched him in the face and stalked off, spending the rest of the evening sitting on the toilet, writing a letter to Crispin. The similarities with my current situation had not eluded me. Michael had always been like Crispin: clever, fascinating, warm, quiet, reserved. But Charlie was what the egotistical part of me had always longed for: danger, sexiness, popularity, style, unpredictability. The kind of man who’d always keep me guessing. Just one night with him and I’d already started to wonder if perhaps I’d spent the last two years in a comfortable coma. There was only one way to find out, I thought. Treat yourself to life in the fast lane with this man. Nellie Daniels lives in the fast lane. I bet she doesn’t sit around talking to her cat on a Saturday afternoon. And she sure as buggery doesn’t have a muff like a rainforest. This, Frances O’Callaghan, is what proper girls do. They dress up. They party. They have sex. They go to spas and their fridges contain organic produce. Are you serious about Glam Fran? Lemme hear you! I punched the air and extinguished my candle with a tidal wave of bubbles. By the time I’d got out of the bath and fed Duke Ellington, I’d decided that things were probably going to be OK. Michael would come back, I’d get some sex with a divine and exciting man in the interim, and I’d sort my life out. I reached for my phone to call Leonie and update her on my plans, only to discover that while I’d been in the bath I’d missed twenty-seven calls. All from Mum. And the text that had just arrived in my inbox was from her. It read: Please come to my house urgently. Emergency. Chapter Twenty-seven
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