‘Why not?’
‘Because I have bills to pay. I have my mother depending on me.’
‘Well, I don’t have anyone depending on me. If I’m broke, it doesn’t affect anyone but me. Besides, I don’t “sit around all day”. I work hard. Do you work at your writing?’
‘Yes,’ she said, bristling. ‘But it doesn’t pay the bills, and I don’t think it makes me too special to have an ordinary meaningless job.’
‘Neither do I!’ he protested. She obviously thought he was really up himself. ‘I don’t think working’s beneath me, or any crap like that – though I’ve been told I’m unemployable on numerous occasions, and at this stage I’m inclined to believe it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I do bits and pieces when I can – casual work that won’t interfere with my painting.’
‘Like what?’
‘I do some framing occasionally for a friend who owns a gallery. And there are a couple of Polish girls in my building who work as cleaners. They pass on jobs to me sometimes when they have an overload.’
‘Cleaning?’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow, no doubt remembering his flat.
‘Yeah, I’m not very good at it,’ he said, with a soft chuckle. ‘The only things I’m really good at are painting and shagging, and I haven’t figured out how to make money from either yet.’
When Claire got up the next morning, Luca had gone. On the kitchen table, he had left an A4 sheet of paper, with a pencil sketch of a bunch of flowers and a message: ‘Thanks for last night – and the night before. Sorry they’re not real. Luca.’ Claire smiled at the drawing, touched by the sweetness of the gesture. Then she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet, as if to mark the end of her acquaintance with Luca. At least it had finished on a good note.
Chapter Seven
Let’s Get This Party Going
Regular readers of the blog will know I’m not into threesomes. I might consider it with the right person, in the right circumstances, so it’s not quite what the BDSM crowd would call a hard limit – but almost. So it might surprise you to know that I attended my first orgy last weekend.
If I don’t like the idea of sex with just one extra person, how could I think about doing it with a whole group of people, most of them strangers? But here’s the thing: people can do all sorts of things in a group that they wouldn’t contemplate doing on their own. Psychologists have studied this. A sort of group mentality takes over. It’s partly the safety-in-numbers thing – no one feels responsible individually for what’s going down. Guilt is shared and thus dissipated. So: the more, the merrier.
It all started at a swingers’ event I attended with Mr Curious. You probably have ideas about swingers, right? I know I did. Even the word ‘swingers’ seems so old-fashioned, kind of sad and saggy, with a nasty tang of the seventies about it. It conjures up images of ghastly parties where a bunch of sad-sack suburbanite couples throw their keys into a bowl after a nice dinner, and some leering fat guy in bell bottoms wins the right to fuck you.
That’s what I expected to find at the hotel when we rolled up for our swinging evening – sad, desperate men whose wives were no longer interested; bored housewives longing for the excitement of flashing their cellulite at someone new. But I went because Mr Curious was … well, he’s not called Mr Curious for nothing, and he wanted to try it. He’d heard about these parties from a colleague. Apparently the swinging scene is on the rise at the moment in our little part of the world. He’d read an article. He said he thought it was different nowadays. And, like I say, I wasn’t averse – I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, but I was willing to give it a try.
And some of the people were just like I expected. There were a few women who clearly didn’t want to be there and had been dragged along by their partners. They were always on the edge of the action, with a sort of desperate rictus smile on their faces, trying to look like they were being a good sport about it all but were just ‘sitting this one out’ while they watched their partner pounding into some tight-skinned girl half their age. Pretty grim. I felt sorry for them – and a bit cross that they wouldn’t stand up for themselves.
But most of the people weren’t like that at all. They were attractive, well dressed, successful and they appeared respectable – or as respectable as you can appear when you’re sucking some stranger’s cock while another fucks you up the arse and your husband cheers you on from the sidelines.
We fell in with a nice crowd, Mr Curious and I. We hooked up with a bunch of other couples. It got a little crazy and, without going into too much detail, I think we all had a very nice time. I got fucked seven ways from Sunday, I sucked a world of cock, I watched Mr Curious having the time of his life getting his curiosity well and truly satisfied – and everyone went home happy.
I still think three’s a crowd. But eight? Eight’s a party.
On Tuesday morning, Claire sat in a café near Bookends, anxiously watching the door as she waited for Catherine to join her. She had been bursting to tell someone about her potential book deal since Mark had first emailed her. He had emailed again on Sunday and told her he would be in Dublin the following weekend, and they had arranged to meet for dinner on Saturday night. That had thrown her into even more of a tizzy. She was so nervous about meeting Mark in the flesh. She kept telling herself it was just a business meeting, not a date, and she felt a lot calmer when she thought of it like that. But it wasn’t easy when Mark was being more flirtatious than ever. They were communicating now by text and email, and the fact that they were flirting in private made it seem more real. She was desperate to talk to someone about it. But Catherine had been on holiday in Spain with her girlfriend, and had only got back the previous evening. Hating to seem needy, Claire had nevertheless begged her to meet up – she’d explode if she had to keep her news to herself for one more second and given that no one else knew that she wrote the blog, there was no one else to tell. When Catherine had agreed to meet her, Claire had taken the morning off.
Catherine was a fellow blogger and a freelance journalist. She wrote the hugely popular ‘Unholy Mother’ blog, a funny, frank and (as the title suggested) irreverent account of first-time motherhood. They had initially met through the blogosphere, eventually moving on to emailing and finally meeting up in real life, and they had become good friends over the past year. Claire knew she could trust Catherine, and it was a relief to have at least one person she could be completely honest with about her blog.
She looked up as the door opened and saw Catherine struggling through it with a buggy. She spotted Claire and waved, then manoeuvred herself awkwardly down the narrow aisle towards her, bashing chairs and customers’ legs.
‘Watch where you’re going with that thing!’ a man shouted at her, when she rammed his ankles.
Catherine rolled her eyes as she parked the buggy beside Claire’s table. ‘I brought Paddy, hope you don’t mind,’ she puffed, unwinding her scarf and flopping onto the banquette opposite.
‘Not at all. It’s nice to see him.’
‘What’s the big emergency?’ Catherine asked, as she struggled out of her jacket.
Before Claire had a chance to answer, a waitress came to take their order.
‘Could I ask you to fold that up?’ she asked, frowning crossly at the buggy. ‘It’s in the way there.’
Catherine looked at her blankly. ‘Do you have any high chairs?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’d like a high chair, please. If you want me to collapse the buggy, obviously I’ll need a child seat.’
The waitress’s eyes darted between the buggy and Catherine. ‘You want a high chair?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘Yes. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
The girl sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll see if I can find you one that’s not in use. What can I get you?’ Her pen hovered over her notepad.
‘God, they’re not very child-friendly here, are they?’ Catherine remarked, when they had ordered coffee and the waitress had bustled off. She sank ba
ck against the banquette. ‘I might have to negative-review them on my blog.’
‘Well, I hate to mention it, but maybe they’d be more child-friendly if you had an actual, you know … child,’ Claire said, nodding to the buggy. They both turned to look at it. A large Paddington bear was strapped securely into the seat.
‘Hmm, you may have a point,’ Catherine said.
That was why Claire knew her secret would always be safe with Catherine, even if she hadn’t already found her to be completely trustworthy. Claire knew secrets about her too, and as Catherine was fond of joking, mutually assured destruction was the best collateral. In fact, Catherine had the most to lose if it ever got out that the happily married young mother who wrote so entertainingly about life with her firstborn was, in fact, a childless lesbian. Her popular mummy-oriented blog had attracted a lot of advertising, and she made a good living from that and her journalism. She was always in demand for features on parenting issues, valued for her quirky insights into child-rearing as well as her solid, practical advice.
They had ‘come out’ to each other slowly, Claire being the first to admit, during a drunken conversation in a Mexican bar, with her guard lowered by too many tequila slammers, that she made up all the stuff on her blog. Catherine had been delighted and countered with her own confession that she had never given birth, wasn’t married to a computer programmer called James, and her baby son, Paddy, was a fictitious creation, a cobbled-together combination of Paddington Bear and the Grouch from Sesame Street. (He looked more like the Grouch, she explained, but he had Paddington’s sweet nature.)
‘Is that for review?’ Claire asked, waving at the buggy.
‘Yeah, I was sent it to road-test. That’s why I brought Paddy today – thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. So far it’s performed pretty well. The straps are easy to do, and it’s excellent for ramming wankers in the shins,’ she said, scowling at the man who had shouted at her. ‘But I suppose I should try it out on an actual child. Paddy doesn’t wriggle around so much when you’re strapping him in. Maybe we should borrow one of your nephews and come back for another visit, in the interest of fairness.’
‘I don’t know how Michelle would feel about her children being in the service of the enemy.’ Claire laughed.
‘How is your beloved sister-in-law? Still writing ‘Diary of a Smug Mummy’ or whatever she calls it?’
Just then, the waitress returned with a high chair. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said sullenly, shoving it at Catherine.
‘Thanks.’ Catherine took it from her.
‘But if anyone else needs it, I’m going to have to ask for it back,’ the girl warned, then stomped off towards the kitchen.
‘They’re not very adult-friendly either,’ Catherine mumbled to Claire.
‘Well, she probably thinks you’re a victim of care in the community.’
‘You’d think she’d be more sympathetic, then,’ Catherine said, as she got up to assemble the high chair. ‘At least this will give me a chance to see how easy the buggy is to collapse.’ She grunted and huffed as she wrestled with the chair, but she finally got it open and positioned it at the side of their table. Then she lifted Paddington into it (‘I won’t bother strapping him in’) and began to collapse the buggy.
‘God, I’m ready for a lie-down now,’ she said, when she’d finally got it flat. She rested it against the side of the banquette and sat down again.
‘A mother’s work is never done.’ Claire smiled.
‘Tell me about it!’
When the waitress returned with their coffee, she eyed Paddington sitting up in the high chair, but said nothing.
‘So,’ Catherine said, leaning across the table, ‘what’s up?’
Claire took a deep breath. ‘Mark Bell contacted me – about the blog.’
‘Mark Bell! Wow!’
Claire smiled. She’d known Catherine would get how big this was immediately. She took a sip of her coffee. ‘He wants me to do a book based on it.’
Catherine gasped. She straightened in her seat, eyes wide. ‘What? Oh, my God! This is huge!’
‘I know!’ Claire grinned.
‘We should be having champagne. Anyway, congratulations!’ She bumped her mug against Claire’s.
‘Thanks. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Nothing’s been finalised yet.’
‘Still – Mark Bell! I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. I’m so pleased for you.’ She gave Claire’s arm a squeeze. ‘You totally deserve it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, what’s the story? What happens next?’
‘Well, he’s coming to Dublin at the weekend. I’m meeting him for dinner on Saturday.’
‘Wow, he’s keen. Mind you, I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s totally got the hots for you.’
‘He hasn’t, though – not really.’
‘Oh, come on. You two have some serious chemistry going whenever you’re on Twitter. You can tell he’s gagging to be one of your Mr Men.’
‘Oh, God, don’t say that!’
‘Why not?’ Catherine frowned. ‘You like him too, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Of course you do. He’s clever, friendly – he seems really nice. And he’s very attractive, if you like that whole male penis thing.’
‘Which I do.’ Claire giggled.
‘Which you do. So, what’s the problem?’
‘Me,’ Claire said, spreading her arms. ‘I’m going to be meeting him in real life. And I’m not exactly the person in that blog, as you well know.’
Catherine considered this, then shrugged. ‘You’ve obviously managed to convince him so far – not to mention your thousands of followers. And he’s hardly going to give you a practical, is he?’
‘No, but …’ Claire chewed her lip. ‘He’s going to expect me to be this really sassy, confident person that I’m not.’
‘Yikes, yes – I see what you mean. So, basically you need to learn how to act like a ho?’
‘NiceGirl is not a ho!’ Claire protested indignantly.
‘I know, I know. She’s just a nice girl who likes sex. Still, you can’t go wrong being a bit slutty with men, can you?’
‘You think?’
‘Don’t ask me. I have no idea what men like. I’m just going by what I see on TV and in movies.’
‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Whatever you have to. This is Mark Bell we’re talking about. Come on – it’s your dream. You can act sassy for one night, can’t you?’
‘God, I don’t know. I’m not much of an actress. Besides, if he decides to go ahead with a book, it won’t just be one night, will it? And if it does get published, there’ll be publicity and everyone will see that NiceGirl and I don’t match up.’
‘Okay, slow down. Let’s take this one step at a time. Just worry about Saturday for now.’
‘You’re right.’ Claire nodded, trying to calm down. ‘But that only gives me a week to catch up on years of experience,’ she said, starting to panic again at the enormity of the task ahead of her.
‘But you don’t need actual experience. You can just bluff it.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Besides, he probably doesn’t even expect you to be as ballsy as your blog. He knows you’re a writer – that’s why he’s interested in you. He’s probably factored a certain amount of fiction into what you write.’
‘I doubt he’s factored in that I’m a total fantasist.’
‘Look on the bright side. It’s a breeze compared to what I’d have to do to impersonate my alter ego.’
‘True,’ Claire said, glancing at Paddington. ‘At least I don’t have to produce a fully-fledged toddler before Saturday. How’s Paddy been anyway?’
‘He’s great,’ Catherine said, smiling fondly at the bear. ‘Completely potty-trained.’
‘How old is he now?’
‘He turned two last week. Did I tell you I’m thinking of having another?’ Catherine said
.
‘Really? Isn’t it a bit soon?’
‘Well, all the other mums who started out with me seem to be going on to their second now. I need to stay ahead of the curve.’
‘How would Paddy react to that, do you think?’
Catherine cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t decided yet. He might be madly jealous – there’d be a lot of mileage in that. Or he could fall totally in love with the baby, which would be adorable.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll see what the other babies are doing, I guess.’
‘Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not ahead of the curve on this one.’
‘I wish I could have been more help,’ Catherine said apologetically, as they finished their coffee, ‘but I know all I want to know about seducing men, and that’s bugger-all.’
‘It’s okay,’ Claire said. ‘It’s great just to be able to talk it out with someone.’
‘Oh, I know!’ Catherine perked up. ‘Why don’t you ask that girl you work with? She’s a bit of a slapper, isn’t she?’
‘Yvonne? She’s not a slapper. She’s just—’
‘A nice girl who likes sex, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s the perfect person to help you, then. She’s exactly who you’re pretending to be.’
Chapter Eight
Claire waited for the afternoon lull before she broached the subject with Yvonne. When there was just a lone customer, desultorily thumbing through a selection of health and fitness books, she decided it was time.
‘Yvonne, there’s something I want to ask you – a favour, really.’
‘Sure!’ Yvonne answered. ‘What is it?’
Claire was touched that Yvonne was so ready to help even before she’d asked what she was getting into. ‘I have this, um … date and—’
‘Oooh!’ Yvonne squealed, beaming from ear to ear. ‘A date? Really?’
‘Yes—’
‘Tell me everything. Who is he? Where did you meet him? Is he seriously hot?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I haven’t met him exactly – not yet.’
‘Oh.’ Yvonne frowned in confusion.
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