by Lesley Jones
COWSEX
LESLEY JONES
CowSex
Copyright © 2017 by Lesley Jones
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Cover Design by T.E. Black Designs;
http://www.teblackdesigns.com
Editing by Ashely Williams; AW Editing
https://www.facebook.com/AWEditing/
Formatting by T.E. Black Designs;
http://www.teblackdesigns.com
CONTENTS
Playlist
Glossary Of Terms
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Lesley Jones
About the Author
LISTEN TO COWSEX’S PLAYLIST ON Spotify!
Please Help Me I’m Falling—Hank Locklin
How Deep is Your Love—The Bee Gees
Riptide—Vance Joy
White Flag—Dido
Stan—Eminem, Dido
Heartbreak—Yelawolf
Turning Table—Adele
Body Like A Backroad—Sam Hunt
Take Me Home—Jess Glynne
What Hurts The Mose—Rascal Flats
Your’s if You Want It—Rascal Flats
Lipstick on Your Collor—Connie Francis
Turn Your Love Around—George Benson
Never Too Much—Luther Vandross
Young Hearts Run Free—Candi Staton
Material Girl—Madonna
Make You Feel My Love—Adele
Bad Moon Rising—Creedence Clearwater Revival
Feels So Right—Alabama
Wobble—Lethal Bizzle
HANK MARVIN: Starving.
SCOOBY/SCOOBY DOO: Clue
SOOTY AND SWEEP: Sleep
KIP: Sleep
OLD BILL: The Police
BIRD: Woman
BLOKE/GEEZER: Man
GAFF: House
CREAM CRACKERED/KNACKERED: Tired.
NOONIE/FANNY: Vagina
READY BREK: Porridge Oats
For Vix & KH… Always believe!
I SWALLOW, BLINK, AND SWALLOW again. I knew I was gonna cry; I’m just not exactly sure what I’m crying for.
“Instead of going in November, we can fly out a few days before Christmas and fly back before New Year. How does that sound?”
I stare at Reggie, my fit-as-fuck boyfriend and live-in lover of the past five years. Reginald Anthony Walker—as he likes to be known to his work colleagues and anyone else he thinks might be impressed by his full name. As I stare, I realise that, instead of feeling overwhelmed, breathless, and completely blindsided by his good looks like I have been in the past, I feel...sad. I feel so sad that not only does it make my heart hurt, but also it makes my belly hurt. I know, right down to my marrow that this is going to be the end of us.
“Grace? How does that sound?”
I continue to stare at him, my nose stinging as the reality sets in. This time, we haven’t just lost the battle; we’ve lost the whole war. It’s time to wave the white flag and admit defeat.
Lyrics from Dido’s “White Flag” popped into my head, and my thought process, as it often does, goes off on a tangent. Dido leads me to the song “Stan”, which brings me to thoughts of Eminem and how much Reggie hated me going to see him in concert. He never did get it. I should’ve known we wouldn’t make it when he frowned upon my love of the lyrical genius that is Marshall Mathers. Who was I kidding? I had known then. I have always known this day would come.
On paper, we are perfect for each other. Two career-minded, ambitious people with lower working-class backgrounds. We have each done well in our own way and are living a life that we never could have dreamed of when we were kids—me in a council flat being raised by my single mum; Reggie in a caravan on an illegal gipsy site with his five siblings—but we did it. We worked hard for our success and achieved great things. We bought a beautiful apartment in London’s St Katherine Docks area that overlooked the River Thames. Luxury holidays abroad and enough money to eat out at decent restaurants every night if we wanted to.
For me, I’ve achieved what I want career-wise. I’m happy, content, ready to slow things down, move out of the city, and start a family. But for Reggie, things are different. The more we have, the more he wants. Ashamed of his background and always wanting to prove something not only to himself but also to the family who would never be aware of his success because he’d broken all ties with them.
All of this adds to my sadness. I’d thought I could change Reggie, make him realise that what we have as a couple is so much more important than the materialistic things our money can buy. I’ve spent the past three years trying to convince him that spending time together should never be compromised by our hectic work lives.
After so many cancelled weekends away, lunch and dinner no-shows, this is the last straw. I’m done. My final attempt to drag him away from London, his office, and the busy schedule he insists on keeping, has failed.
I’ve failed.
Anger starts to bubble in my belly. Anger that I’ve once again lost to that bitch—the other love of his life—his fucking job.
I throw my head back and laugh towards the ceiling as tears roll down my face.
“Grace?”
I stop laughing, turn my head slowly, and look Reggie straight in the eyes. “How does that sound? How does that fucking sound?”
“Grace, there’s—” He attempts to interrupt.
“I’ll tell you how that sounds, Reggie. It sounds like ‘Goodbye. Farewell. Sayon-fucking-ara. The Fucking End’. That’s how that sounds.”
Now it’s his turn to blink and stare.
“I don’t understand?”
“You don’t?” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, and he shakes his head.
“Of course you don’t. We’ve talked of nothing else for the past year—correction, I’ve talked of nothing else for the past year. I thought we’d agreed. I thought everything was in place. I even booked the fucking flights!” I don’t wanna shout because I know it will lead to crying. I don’t wanna cry, but I’m sad. Angry, fed up, and frustrated.
“Stop swearing, Grace, and stop shouting.”
More staring. This time in silence until finally, Reggie speaks.
“I know you’re disappointed, and I know I said I’d take a month off and go to the States with you, but the timing
isn’t right.”
“For you. And don’t tell me to stop shouting. I’m shouting because you make me shout, and I’ll fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking swear if I fucking want to.” I watch as he rakes his hand through his dirty blond hair, shoving it back from his forehead. Despite his efforts, his fringe still flops back forwards, hanging over his eye.
It makes my insides coil around my heart, which is lodged in the deepest, darkest depths of my belly, and squeeze tight. I used to love that about him, the way his hair fell forwards.
I still do love it. But where has that gotten me?
Reggie is such a perfectionist, such a control freak that it pisses him off that the only time his hair ever stays in place is right after he has it cut, and then only if it’s cut shorter than he actually likes to wear it.
The two things in his life he always complains about not being able to control: me and his hair.
“Grace, I have to work.” His voice is just above a whisper and carries a hint of a plea to it.
“I know you have to work, I get that, but you’ve got more than enough holiday saved to take two months off, three months even, and there’s plenty you can do from your laptop and phone.”
“I have meetings in Berlin and St Tropez in early January, I need to prepare for them.”
“And I suppose there’s no one else who can go. I thought that was why you worked so hard to become head of the department! So that you had staff to do all the travelling, so you didn’t have to anymore.”
“Grace…”
“No, no, Reggie. Be honest with me right now, is it that you can’t take time off, or is it that you won’t?”
He looks away from me and around the room, letting out a heavy sigh before his gaze comes back to me.
“I like my job, is that such a bad thing?”
“No, and I’ve never said it was, but is your job more important than me, than us?”
“It’s......no, it’s not more important.”
“So why does it always come first? I don’t wanna sound like a whiney little bitch, Reggie, but that’s what you’re turning me into. You work hard, but when was the last time we had any time for us? You took no holiday over the summer because you were planning to take this trip with me. Now you’re cutting what was supposed to be six weeks away to less than one.”
“Well, unlike you, I don’t own the company I work for, I can’t take off whenever I feel like it.”
“I know that. That’s why we talked about all of this a year ago, that’s why I told you to make sure the time off was booked with HR at the beginning of the year.”
I know him well enough to notice the slight flinch he gives at my words and again, my belly churns.
I feel sick.
“You didn’t book the time off did you?”
He chews on his lip and simply stares at me.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“You never intended coming with me, did you?”
“I thought......I was thinking maybe we could grab a week in Seychelles in the New Year?”
“The Seychelles, for a week?”
“Yeah, you like it there.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. Why would I—”
“It’s not about the where, Reggie, it’s about the us. It’s about us spending time together. I’d spend six weeks in a cardboard box outside Liverpool Street Station if it was with you.”
He’s not getting this. He’s not getting me. I could bang on all night, and he’ll still not get where I’m coming from.
I give him a smile.
“Do you not understand that I just wanna spend time with you? That I want us to get back to where we used to be? We haven’t had sex in over two weeks. I’m thirty-two, that’s not normal.”
He rolls his eyes, and that instantly pisses me off even more.
“I’ll take a month off in the summer. Things are always quieter during the summer months.”
I stare down into the cushion that is resting in my lap. A tear of defeat falls from my eye and lands on the grey fabric, causing a dark splodge to spread through the fibres. I attempt to control the tremble in my voice and the quiver to my lips as I whisper very quietly, “Summer’s too late for us, Reg. November was too late if we’re honest. We should’ve taken the time to put things right two or three years ago….”
“You don’t mean that, Grace. We’re okay. We’re good together. We’ve both been busy building our careers. I’m pretty much at the top of my game, so now you can slow down, and we can start planning a wedding and maybe kids if that’s what you want?”
“No, it’s not what I want, not now. We’re broken, Reg. Broken beyond repair. Marriage would be pointless, and I would never bring a child into the middle of what we’ve got.”
He moves from where he’s sitting on the edge of the armchair and joins me on the sofa. I watch him move. Watch as his arm reaches out and as his hand cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, swiping away my tears.
“I love you, Grace. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right, to get us back on track.”
“Then take a month off work and come away with me to the cabin I’ve booked for us in Colorado. Spend a month with me, fixing us, making us better.”
I know what his answer is gonna be as soon as his shoulders drop, his hand falls away from my face, and he exhales a short puff of air.
“I can’t.”
“Then we’re done.”
“ MAY I HAVE ANOTHER GLASS of wine please?”
“Of course, Ms Elliott, it’s the cabernet sauvignon, correct?”
“Yes please.” I smile up at the stewardess as I reply and settle back into my seat, hoping I didn’t sound anywhere near as drunk as I actually am.
She returns a moment later with a fresh glass and tops it up from the bottle in her hand. I thank her, and she smiles, disappears, and then returns with a basket filled with bags of nuts, crisps, and pretzels. I take a bag of plain crisps and place them on the tray table at the side of my seat.
I couldn’t get a refund on the airline ticket I’d booked for Reggie, so I was determined to get my money’s worth out of the four grand I’d spent on my seat in business class by drinking as much wine as possible. The only problem is, I’m picking up a car when I get to the other end, so I have to get all of my alcohol consumption in at the beginning of the ten and a half hour flight. Hopefully, I’ll spend the second half of the journey sleeping it off and wake up fresh as a daisy, ready to take on the mountains of Colorado once we land. That’s the plan anyway.
We are three hours into the flight, and I am on my fifth glass of wine. “I wish they’d just leave me the bottle, so I didn’t have to keep asking,” I mumble to myself as I take a sip from my tiny, half glass of wine.
The woman sitting beside me aims a sympathetic smile my way. Fumes that scream ‘sad, broken, loser’ must be emanating from my pores, so best I drink quicker then and replace them with plain, old alcohol.
I open the fun-sized bag of crisps and tuck into them, too. We’ve already been served dinner, or lunch, depending on which time zone you’re basing it on. The food, which was a delicious four-course meal of smoked salmon and caper salad, Moroccan spiced chicken on a bed of couscous and roasted vegetables, a choice of dessert from the cart, and cheese and biscuits, was top bloody notch, considering it was plane food.
Since the split between Reggie and I two months ago, I have had zero appetite. The whole thing has been fantastic for my waistline, which has gone down two sizes, but I doubt it will last. Since boarding the plane, I’ve been ravenous, troughing out on anything that’s been offered.
I feel like a huge weight has finally been lifted from my chest, and that for the first time in months…. maybe years, I’m finally able to breathe again.
The last couple of months have been horrible. Absolute shit.
We’ve both remained living in our flat. I knew that I was going to be leaving and co
uldn’t get another place to live on a short-term lease.
Reggie hasn’t even mentioned either of us moving out, and after I’d slept in the spare bedroom two nights in a row, he’d actually asked me if it was a permanent thing.
He’d then graciously offered to let me keep the master suite, claiming that I had a lot more shit than he did and moving his stuff out would be easier.
This was very true, and so I accepted his offer feeling like even more of a bitch for calling this whole thing on.
Was it really such a bad thing that he loved his job more than me?
Things had remained amicable between us, just awkward. We hadn’t actually argued once since the decision was made.
Then about four weeks ago, Reggie stopped coming home on the weekends. I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt. It did. The first two weekends in a row, I’d laid in bed, wondering who he was with and what they were up to. Then I stalked his social media, looking for clues, but he hadn’t posted a single thing since the day before our split.
Even though I was the one who ended things, I still felt sick to my stomach the morning I found a shirt of his soaking in the sink in our utility room. The remnants of makeup still smudged all over it.