Managed to make complete prat of Self in corridor when mistake naff trompe l’oeil on wall for real doorway and walk straight into it. The wall that is. Rock God’s suite is monument to excess. Lots of bouquets and fruit baskets and champagne wrapped in cellophane sent by music biz luminaries (well, their secretaries anyway) as befits star of his status not to mention the multi-patterned multi-coloured multi-textured decor: all silk drapes and curtain poles, squashy sofas and gilded coffee tables, obligatory huge ugly lamps on occasional tables all round room and the most enormous four-poster bed ever seen. Throw Self on it with such enthusiasm bounce straight back off and on to floor. Fortunately Rock God seems to think all this clumsiness is cute and endearing as he opens bubbly, rolls joint and chops out line of coke. Never seen man do more than one thing at a time before and am well impressed. And then he kissed me. Whoa!!
Next thing, clothes flying round room, we’re on bed, on balcony, in shower, discovering new uses for soft fruit, washing it off with champagne, tying each other to bed with stockings, bent over sofa, rolling around on carpet and back on bed for grand finale. It was, without shadow of doubt, the most spine-tingling toe-nibbling nipple-licking back-bending heart-pounding groin-straining sweat-dripping arse-slapping neck-biting mouth-watering face-sucking back-scratching lip-smacking sex ever had in entire life.
Afterwards, opened another bottle of Bolly and talked for ages. As sun came up over London, sat on balcony to finish bubbly. Could hardly believe it. In fact, so gob-smacked, had to drag Rock God back to bed just to make sure. Second time around, took it much more slowly. Much more. So slowly, hardly moving at all, locked together at groin and mouth, never taking eyes off each other. Sexy motherfucker. Finally fell asleep all tangled up in his arms and legs.
Woke around eleven. Major panic. Rock God lying on top and sleeping. Men always seem to weigh so much more, had trouble pushing him off. Ran round room like startled deer trying to find all of clothes, including both shoes not to mention untie stockings from bedpost. Rock God offers to order breakfast but demand taxi. Seems didn’t mention fact that had boyfriend, well long term partner and co-mortgagee probably more accurate description, and now Rock God getting all hurt and injured. Well really! Now screaming for taxi, not choice of Continental or Full English. Nasty feeling am in big big trouble. Not v. good.
Hotel reception full of rich American tourists who stare open mouthed at sight of Self still in what is quite obviously last night’s frock and some seriously laddered stockings. Race straight out and into waiting cab. Thank God brought sunglasses. Look at voicemail on mobile. Seems Himself’s been phoning every forty minutes. Oops. Maybe shouldn’t go straight home. Head for Best Friend’s house instead.
Best Friend is both curious and furious. Says she was worried. Yeah right. Last time saw her she was doing fair impression of a contortionist on the dance floor. Now seems to have come over all moral. Still, at least when He phoned, Best Friend had presence of mind to invent story involving Self, her, and bottle of tequila and apparently He is under totally erroneous impression that Self is passed out in spare room right now. Now lecture is over, Best Friend wants all gory details. Tell her to put kettle on while jump in shower. Next time He phones, pretend to be all fuzzy round edges and promise to come home soonest.
And here I am. What was it said to Best Friend No. 2? If you shag someone else, you’re obviously not in love. And did. Shag someone else. And then some. So obviously am not. And if not in love, what the hell am doing here? Not only that, have promised to go to Cornwall with Him to watch sodding eclipse. Can’t wait. All those hours, trapped in car in traffic jam that goes all way back to sodding court of King Arthur, just so can stand on overcrowded beach with thousands of strangers, not to mention regional news crews with their sun guns and their over enthusiastic cub reporters, and watch sky get dark. Well hold fucking front page. Still, anything for quiet life. Oh God. Can hear Him coming back with takeaway. Better go and watch Casualty with Him. Am in enough trouble already. Anyway, hangover wearing off and huge curry in front of telly seems like fab idea. Maybe a bottle of wine …
Sunday Morning
2 bottles wine, half bottle Baileys, 17 Marlboro Lights, eighth skunk weed.
Not really enough to constitute major hangover but think it’s bit of a rollover hangover. Spent last night trying to avoid physical contact with Him on grounds that every nerve end in body is hurting following alleged tequila binge but still have to sit through Casualty and although know full well blood and guts not real, scenes of multiple car crash have stomach churning. Or maybe that was guilt. Do feel very guilty. Mainly cos don’t feel guilty. Not about shagging Rock God. Heavens no. One of best experiences in life. Feel guilty that can’t talk to Him about it. Whole dissatisfaction thing, not shagging. But then think, don’t really give a toss. Have been rerunning edited highlights of night of passion with Rock God in mind over and over and over again and now whole episode tinged with unreality. Still can’t believe really did that. Maybe didn’t. Wouldn’t want to ‘fess up to something only imagined.
Woke up to find Him whimpering for sex so decided, in interests of domestic harmony, to lie back and think of Rock God. No sooner has He started, He’s pulling out and shouting rubbish about feeling something inside Self. Like what, exactly? His car keys? But no, He’s totally convinced felt something on the end of his knob. More than I did. Eventually makes connection between alien object and possible infidelity at which point decide must retaliate (attack being best form of defence) by joining in and being mortally offended by implication that might have strayed off straight and narrow. How dare He! Twist this immediately into sick of not being trusted, His insane jealousy, etc etc etc and storm off to have bath. Still not entirely sure what he’s talking about.
Lay in bath and watched fish swimming around fake Rolex put in tank last Christmas. Feel slightly envious of their short-term memory. Sometimes think forgetting things three seconds after they happen might not be so bad. Noticed sunshine coming through Venetian blind and how shadow on wall resembles bars. Hrrrmmm. Start having wash, bit absent mindedly, still thinking things over again and again and then realize insides are falling out. Reach between legs and, as horror rapidly turns to disbelief, find something emerging from nether regions: something soft, slippery, slightly squishy, oozing out of Self. For a moment thoughts of divine retribution and the actual existence of some angry god leapt into head but dismissed stupid notion immediately and then whatever it was floated to surface and lay there, semi-submerged, like some soapy jellyfish. Hardly daring to breathe, picked it up with extreme caution. A condom. A condom! The Rock God’s condom! Oh my God! So much for safe sex! And what am supposed to do with it now? Send it back? I believe this is yours? Lovely night – you forgot this? Or just keep it to show grandchildren in next millennium. Well, Granny had her wild moments when she was young you know. Had to laugh. And then had to laugh even louder as everything fell into place. So that’s what He felt with his willy. And then had to endure ten minute torrent of abuse from Self on just exactly how sad a man has to be to try and trick his beloved with such a stupid, obviously made up story. Had to laugh like a drain now really. Poor bastard. Almost feel quite sorry for Him. But the condom … When finally stopped laughing, made mental note to Self: next time decide to shag pop star, don’t let him fall asleep inside you.
Wendy Holden
Number One bestselling author Wendy Holden has written ten consecutive Sunday Times Top Ten bestsellers. A former journalist on the Sunday Times, Tatler and the Mail on Sunday, she is also a literary critic, columnist and recent judge for the Costa Novel and Book of the Year Awards. Her latest novel, Wild and Free (Headline), is a comedy set at an upmarket summer music festival.
The E-Male of the Species
Wendy Holden
The e-mail pinged on to Georgie’s screen. ‘It’s. So. Hot – J x.’
Georgie looked at it, disappointed. Three words. Hardly worth opening the damn thing really. That was
the trouble with e-mail. They were the electronic equivalent of hearing the letterbox go and rushing to the door to find a flier for Salmonella Pizza and something from the Inland Revenue. A let-down, basically. All gong and no dinner.
But Jenny wasn’t wrong. It was boiling. The office air-conditioning faithfully echoed the hysterical lurches of the weather – but, unfortunately, several lurches behind. Today’s blistering indoor temperatures, apparently meant to address the cold snap of last week, had in fact coincided with the third day of blue skies, blazing sunshine and parks full of sunbathing office workers at lunchtime. The summer had started with a vengeance.
Georgie, restless with the heat, looked round the perspiring office. The telephones beeping and chirruping like parakeets in the jungle only added to the tropical effect. Everyone from the subs to the editor’s secretary looked distinctly moist under the armpits. In the case of the editor’s secretary, however, this was nothing out of the ordinary; apparently oblivious to the great strides forward made in the field of anti-perspirant technology, Moira had a faint odour of Camembert about her even in the depths of winter.
Opposite Georgie, Jenny, reaching over for her ringing telephone, certainly seemed to be suffering. Her face was flushed and there was sweat on her upper lip, as well as tiny bristles of hair. Why the hell, Georgie wondered, didn’t Jenny wax it? No wonder she never got anywhere with men. Her clothes, too, were hardly a come-on. Which reminded her …
‘Effing hell.’ Georgie stabbed furiously at her keyboard. ‘Literally. My “f” key’s stuck again. Bugger it. Just as I’ve got four hundred words to write about the style of Ffion Jenkins.’
But Jenny wasn’t listening. She was gawping into space, as indeed, Georgie realized, she had been since putting the receiver down. Something momentous had clearly occurred; something, Georgie guessed, Jenny didn’t want the rest of the notoriously nosy features desk to know about. Discreet whispering, however, was out of the question; two bulky computer screens blocked the space between them. Only by leaning over so far she practically fell out of her chair could Georgie see her colleague at all.
Georgie had long decided on e-mail as being the only way to communicate. Not that Jenny’s were anywhere as amusing as her own of course. But then, not everyone had her abilities; this was why Jenny was merely a commissioning editor for the paper’s features pages and Georgie their star writer. Meaning that, while Jenny spent her days writing pleading letters requesting face-time with various celebrities of the moment, Georgie actually got to go and interview them, got to go clacking in her Jimmy Choos into everywhere from the Savoy to the Metropolitan Hotel, zooming up in the lift to the marble bathrooms and crystal caviar-holders of the hotel’s most expensive apartments. It was Georgie’s boast that she’d seen more Presidential Suites than Bill Clinton. Such boasts, as well as vast quantities of free cosmetics and (thanks to her other role as the paper’s fashion writer) clothes and trips to the Paris shows, had made her less than popular in the office. Which is why she tolerated Jenny. If only for intelligence/gossip-gathering purposes, one needed an office friend, even if it was a tragic single thirtysomething who advertised in lonely hearts columns for love.
‘My blind date! Jx’, Jenny pinged back a few minutes later in reply to Georgie’s enquiring e-mail. Blind date. Georgie tried to shoo away the pitying smile that wanted to play about her lips. Not because she wished to spare Jenny’s feelings particularly. No, it was entirely because her pathetic campaign to find a man was too amusing to run the risk of not hearing about it any more.
‘The one you wrote to of the Lonely Hearts ad? Gx’ It was difficult to suppress a snigger.
‘That’s right. We’re meeting tonight. Jx’
‘Any idea what he looks like? You haven’t met him before, have you? How will you know it’s him? Gx.’ It was annoying, this kiss. But Jenny always did it – just how desperate for affection was she? Leaving it off in reply seemed unfriendly; again, Georgie risked not hearing the full story of her catastrophic love life.
‘No but will recognize by what he has on. Jx’
‘What’s that? Cravat and blazer? Gx’ It was below the belt, Georgie knew, but the ‘lonely soldier’ of Jenny’s last encounter, far from being the gym-hardened SAS officer she had imagined, turned out to be a retired colonel from Andover with a cravat, blazer and walrus moustache. Although one would have thought the latter suited Jenny to a T. Bending slightly to the side, Georgie could see her colleague’s reddening face as she read the message.
‘No. Socks with Scottie dogs on. Jx’
Some things couldn’t be confined to e-mail; certainly not one with no effing facility. Georgie leaned sideways in her chair and stared at Jenny, her eyes wide with scorn. ‘Scottie Dog Socks? You are joking?’ she repeated loudly.
Three desks down, the features assistant looked up with interest. Georgie scowled at her before renewing the assault on Jenny. ‘How the hell will you see them anyway?’ she demanded. ‘Will he be wearing shorts?’
Jenny’s heat-flushed face flushed deeper as she tapped furiously.
‘He’ll be sitting down with his socks clearly visible, he says. It’s all very well for you to laugh. You’ve got a boyfriend. Jx’
‘Of sorts. Gx’ Georgie pressed Send with a twist of the lips. Yes, she had Tim, which in the great scheme of things was good. But he was also a penniless freelance writer (bad); whose ambition, if so it could be called, lagged several miles behind her own (bad). Yet he was handsome (good) – he had stood out a mile amid the greasy hacks at the newspaper Christmas party they had met at (good, if not difficult) – even though his dress sense left a lot to be desired (bad). Added to which, they weren’t having much sex at the moment (bad), but then, they weren’t having rows either (good). You had to see someone to have rows with them; Tim had been out every evening for the past week at least.
‘Where are you meeting him? Gx’
‘Odeon Leicester Square and then Pizza Express. Jx’
Georgie smirked as she typed a reply. The light fantastic it wasn’t. She was annoyed, however, at a faint pang of what felt suspiciously like envy. It would be fun to have a flirt, although obviously not with a man with naff socks. But it was summer and the sap had risen, even if Tim had not. The particular sap in her life had still been in bed as she had left for work – stayed up all night to write a piece, apparently. Well, tough luck, thought Georgie. He should be more organized. It would serve him right if she met someone else.
‘Got some clean knickers in your bag? Gx’
The answer pinged on to Georgie’s screen.
‘Congratulations. Thought that piece you wrote about men being terrible dancers was hilarious. Wondered if you were thinking of the school disco!’
Georgie stared. What was Jenny talking about? The piece in question had appeared in the paper several weeks ago. It had been good, of course – declared one of Georgie’s best by the editor himself, in fact. But Jenny had been at Roedean, an institution whose knees-ups Georgie imagined to be something along the lines of the ball scene in My Fair Lady. What did she know about the exhibition of uncoordinated stomping and snogging otherwise known as the Elmhurst school disco?
Georgie read the rest of the message. ‘You probably don’t remember me – David (Dave) Anderton (Elmhurst School)?’
The 2000 volts that suddenly shot through Georgie had nothing to do with the tangle of dangerous-looking computer wires at her feet. Did she remember David (Dave) Anderton? Was the Pope Catholic, roses red, violets blue and hopeless teenage crushes the most keenly felt of all? Yes, she remembered David (Dave) Anderton, even though ten years lay between now and her final lustful glance at him at sixth-form speech day. She had not seen him – or anyone else from school – since.
Ping. ‘I’d rather not discuss my underwear, thanks. Jx’
Georgie grinned, aware that although her mind was no longer on her colleague, it was very much on underwear. Dave Anderton’s underwear. Not that she had ever got to see it
. The affair that had raged in Georgie’s head throughout the two years of Elmhurst sixth form had never been consummated; Dave Anderton had been oblivious to the love that had burned in her bosom. The love that had dared not speak its name for fear of repudiation. For then Georgie had been Georgina, a lumpen, swotty, tongue-tied creature neither male nor female, but something that wore glasses. She blushed at the memory.
Ten years ago. Years during which she had worked hard not only to beat the competition and become top women’s feature writer on a successful newspaper, but to become slim, tanned and polished as well. From the doughty Georgina, she had become the skittish Georgie. Two sizes smaller than her sixth-form self, blonder (thanks to Stefano and his nifty way with tinfoil), taller (various hands from Office to Jimmy Choo) and bluer of eye (tinted contact lenses, the glasses having been long since ceremonially stamped on with a steel Gucci heel). If only Dave Anderton could see her now.
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