Confessions: A Secret Diary

Confessions: A Secret Diary Amber Stephens Shelley Matthews is married to her job. Which is just as well, as she hasn't had sex for over a year. But when her editor decides a re-vamp of the magazine is needed, Shelley is forced to go undercover – as a sex addict.Attending therapy sessions, Shelley hears the intimate confessions of a whole host of extraordinary characters. Including Cian, a pop band pin-up who is enjoying all the trappings of fame.Can Shelley keep her secret from the others as well as writing the story of the year? And most importantly can she keep her cool – and chastity – intact? And does she really want to? AMBER STEPHENS Confessions: A Secret Diary With special thanks to Tom Easton. Contents Title Page (#ue504f649-fe56-5a69-b039-fd0821c2eb93)Dedication (#u165816dd-db3d-5050-b245-1666cc25f9dd)Chapter One (#u32cf27c5-f7b8-5df8-9471-d1128bfbd713)Chapter Two (#ufb737686-a29e-5861-aa86-adf9bc6e259a)Chapter Three (#uc89dc7fa-77d2-593e-ac1f-bd1d42107128)Chapter Four (#u6a6299bd-c98a-5da8-a86f-43cd4b27fb61)Chapter Five (#u19ba8d7b-c43d-5c9a-84bc-f2b3341ed423)Chapter Six (#u6b6c3313-df7c-53cc-b192-3ca3861c8a3e)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)More about Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) ‘Every now and then you should sleep with someone considerably less attractive than you.’ Shelley looked up at Briony across their cluttered, back-to-back desks. ‘Er … what?’ She hadn’t really been properly listening to her friend twittering on, but sometimes Briony said stuff you just couldn’t let by. ‘Why?’ ‘You’ve got to give a little bit back,’ Briony said, flicking over the pages of a magazine. ‘Haven’t you heard about that Random Acts of Kindness movement?’ ‘Yes, but that means buying someone a cup of coffee, or helping an old lady across the road,’ Shelley pointed out. ‘Not yanking your pants down at a Star Trek Convention and shouting “Get it here, Scotty!”’ Briony was about to say something else but Shelley held up a hand. ‘What’s up with you?’ ‘I’m totally bricking it.’ ‘About the announcement?’ ‘Of course. How come you’re so chilled?’ Briony shrugged. ‘Que sera, sera.’ Shelley bit her lip. The office was wired tighter than Joan Rivers’ face. A general e-mail had been waiting for all the staff that morning from the Chief Operating Officer of West End Magazines, their parent company, requesting their punctual presence at eleven o’clock for an important announcement about the future of FemaleIntuition, the magazine Shelley had been working on for nearly four years. Shelley tucked her unruly brown hair behind her ears and picked up a Styrofoam coffee cup, clutching it in two hands as though she feared it might escape. ‘Do you think Kate’s sick or something? She’s been so quiet lately,’ she said. ‘Don’t be a div, Shell,’ Briony said, rolling her eyes. ‘She ain’t coming back.’ ‘Isn’t coming back,’ Shelley corrected. She could never let a grammatical slip go by. She knew it was sad, and was convinced she’d end up alone, with a dozen cats, writing letters to the Guardian admonishing them for typos and punctuation clangers. ‘She’s been given her P45,’ Briony said. ‘You don’t know that,’ Shelley replied. ‘So why is there a padlock on her office door?’ Shelley looked over at the glass office Kate had been in for two and a half decades. The office must have had cutting-edge d?cor back then, glass and steel everywhere, midnight-blue carpets, pastel vertical blinds, open-brick walls. Female Intuition had been the first London magazine to give computers to all the editors. Now the d?cor looked shabby, many of the vertical blinds were lying horizontally amongst the mouse droppings on the faded carpet, and Shelley sometimes wondered if her computer were one of the original ones handed out – it was practically steam-driven. Shelley sort of knew it must be over, but didn’t want it to be true. Kate Hurley had given Shelley her first job in journalism, straight out of university, or at least her first job writing for magazines, which is not necessarily the same thing. She’d been editor here at Female Intuition for as long as anyone could remember and was legendary in the business. ‘I need a drink, fancy anything from the kitchen?’ Shelley asked. ‘I have a splitting headache,’ Briony replied. ‘Get me a strong coffee would you?’ ‘Coffee’s not good for headaches,’ Shelley replied. ‘Who says?’ ‘Everyone says. It’s a diuretic, isn’t it?’ ‘Don’t give me any of that Scientology crap; get me a double-strength aspirin and a triple espresso.’ Shelley wandered off to the manky little kitchen to get the drinks. She passed Freya Wormwood’s desk on the way back and the Fashion and Lifestyle Editor looked up, catching her eye. Though pretty, and with a figure to die for, Freya made the mistake of going with whatever hairstyle was currently in vogue, regardless of its suitability for her. Freya currently sported an enormous fringe that made her look a little like the Dulux dog. ‘Not nervous are you, Shelley?’ Freya asked in that sly, sardonic voice she used with people she felt threatened by. Other women, to be specific. Shelley glanced at the myriad photos of her perfect boyfriend, Harry, on her desk, so many it looked like a shrine. ‘No,’ she replied, trying not to sound defensive and failing. ‘What would I have to be nervous about?’ Freya looked away, but not before Shelley caught the beginnings of a smirk on her face. Freya was one of those women who claim moral superiority simply because they have a boyfriend when you don’t. Not that anyone in the office had ever been allowed to meet the saintly Harry. Briony suspected he didn’t exist and the photos in the frames had already been there when she bought them. Harry bought me a divine new coat the other day – far toogood for work, though. Harry’s whipping me off to Brugeson the weekend, first class on the Eurostar. Harry’s such asensitive lover, unless I ask him to treat me roughly, that is! ‘Have you heard something?’ Shelley asked, immediately regretting it. If there was something Freya loved even more than Harry, it was knowing something that other people didn’t. ‘I’ve heard a few things, Shelley,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been asked not to share them with anyone else for now.’ Shelley didn’t believe a word of it, and slumped down back at her desk. Briony arched an eyebrow. ‘I wonder who’s going to take over?’ Shelley said. ‘They might close us down altogether.’ ‘Oh don’t worry about that,’ Briony said, putting down her magazine, which Shelley couldn’t help but notice was a rival publication with considerably higher circulation. ‘They’ll just get a new editor in who’ll make a big fuss about New Beginnings and a Radical New Focus before changing the logo slightly, adjusting the font size and putting the handbags section on page 240 instead of page 170.’ ‘Really?’ Shelley asked hopefully. ‘No redundancies?’ ‘Nooooo,’ Briony said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Apart from firing a couple of columnists, maybe.’ ‘Briony!’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m a columnist!’ Briony paused. ‘Oh, yes. So you are. Oh don’t worry; I think there’s at least two columnists more likely to go than you.’ ‘Who?’ Shelley asked, coolly. ‘Oh erm, Robin and, um … um …’ Briony cast her eyes around the open plan office desperately. ‘Erm, and Toni.’ ‘Toni left three months ago.’ ‘Really? Oh …’ ‘Never mind,’ Shelley said, saving her from further embarrassment. ‘Maybe redundancy is exactly what I need. Sometimes one needs a kick up the bum to make one sort one’s life out.’ ‘Oh does one?’ Briony asked. ‘What needs to change in your life then?’ Shelley thought it over. She was twenty-five and had only ever had one job. She wasn’t at all sure she was particularly good at being a columnist. How could she have anything important to say to women when she’d never done anything with her life? She’d postponed her gap year until she had some money, and had never got around to going now that she had. She’d never really had a proper long-term boyfriend, unless you counted Rob at university who she went out with for six months before sleeping with him, only to discover the next day that he’d been having a string of affairs, including a quick shag with her best friend in the toilet while Shelley was in the kitchen studying for her Eng Lit exam. She rarely went out and had no romantic interests, apart from a crush on the fit South African behind the bar at The Crown where they drank after work. In two years she’d ordered fifty-seven bottles of Pinot Grigio from him but never plucked up the courage to ask his name. She was sure she wouldn’t be his type anyway. Antipodeans were used to wildcat lovers with bodies supple as springboks, according to Briony’s magazine. Shelley was as timid as a springbok and the only thing wild about her was her tousled, shoulder-length hair. ‘You just need a good shag,’ Briony said, interrupting the reverie. ‘You need to be fucked till you fart.’ Shelley went bright red. ‘Briony!’ she hissed. ‘You’re hung up on sex. You need to face your fears.’ ‘I don’t have a hang-up about sex,’ Shelley said, primly. ‘Sure,’ Briony said. ‘Have you ever thought about therapy?’ Shelley looked up at her friend sharply. ‘Read my lips, Briony. I. Do. Not. Need. Therapy! We’ve had this before.’ ‘Mmm, touched a raw nerve I think,’ Briony said, tight-lipped. She would have gone on but was interrupted by the arrival of Sonia Bailey. The Chief Operating Officer came bustling in, exuding a no-nonsense, bottom-line kind of attitude. Bailey was the sort of person, and Shelley suspected there was one in every large organisation, who was never happier than when delivering really bad news, and her heart sank as she saw a glint of joy in the COO’s eye. Cutting out ‘dead wood’ and hiving off unsuccessful parts of the business were what she excelled in, having little knowledge of the actual business of publishing magazines. Briony claimed she got off on it and could only gain sexual satisfaction when she was firing people. Bailey cleared her throat to get the room’s attention, which was unnecessary as everyone was waiting, hearts in mouths, wondering if they’d have time to gather the photos off their desks before being shown to the lifts. Shelley had looked up the employment terms last week when the latest circulation figures had come through. ‘One week’s pay for every year I’ve worked here, plus one month’s notice period, plus unused holiday …’ ‘Now people,’ Bailey began, ‘I have some bad news. Kate Hurley has taken early retirement with immediate effect. The Board of West End Magazines were saddened to hear of this …’ Briony snorted, then fought to disguise it as a cough. ‘… but we have accepted her decision. Kate’s contribution to this magazine and to West End has been immense over the last 25 years and she will be sorely missed, but …’ and at this Bailey’s eyes narrowed ‘… it has been evident for some time that Female Intuition has been haemorrhaging readers and making a net loss for the Group which is deepening month on month, year on year.’ As she spoke, Shelley noticed Bailey’s breath getting heavier. She was almost panting now. ‘From a height of nearly one million in 1986, the circulation has dropped to less than seventy thousand, and many of those are giveaways. People just don’t know what the magazine is trying to do anymore. It has lost focus and the numbers don’t add up.’ She took a deep breath, taking her time, cheeks slightly flushed. ‘This magazine has become no longer sustainable and the Group can no longer support it.’ Her eyes were nearly closed as she reached the climax of her speech. ‘And so it has been decided that …’ but at this point she paused and came back from the brink. When she opened her eyes, Shelley saw with interest that the glint was suddenly gone. Bailey looked disappointed. Deflated. This is the part of the speech she hadn’t wanted to make. ‘… the magazine will be re-branded, with a radical new focus.’ Briony gave a flourish and a bow in Shelley’s direction. ‘Female Intuition will be given one last chance to re-invent itself.’ Bailey picked up a phone on the desk next to her, dialled and spoke. ‘Could you come down now please?’ she asked and returned the receiver. ‘We’re going to discuss the new direction of the magazine. I wish you all the best and know you can make this work.’ Bailey made a gesture with her hand. ‘Was that a fist pump?’ hissed Briony. There followed a couple of minutes of awkward silence, then the door opened and in walked Aidan Carter. Shelley frowned. Aidan was the Marketing Director for the Group. Only fair to consult on the new direction, I suppose. Not that she was disappointed. Aidan was easy on the eye and so, well … big. The way he carried himself made him seem even taller then he was, and he must have been 6? 3??. Carter was notorious for his brash management style and forceful opinions and had apparently had several stand-up rows with other board members, at the actual conference table. He was the sort of man who, when he came storming into a room, eyes flashing, you both feared and at the same time secretly hoped he was coming for you. Shelley watched as he walked over to Sonia, confident and long-limbed. Freya just happened to be in his way and simpered sweetly at him as she moved aside. Carter took the COO’s proffered hand and clasped it in both of his. Briony kicked Shelley under the desk, trying to get her eye but Shelley ignored her. Briony had been convinced Aidan fancied Shelley ever since the Group Christmas party last year. She had tried to explain that just because someone dances with you didn’t mean he fancied you. ‘He’s just about the only decent prospect in a company made up of eighty per cent women and could have his pick of the ladies. He was only being polite in trying to dance with as many women as he could. He did the “Macarena” with Sonia Bailey for God’s sake,’ Shelley had pointed out. ‘So why did he come back later to dance with you again?’ Briony asked, knowingly. ‘When “Careless Whisper” was on?’ Shelley had just blushed and got on with her work, not wanting to think about it. Now Aidan stood tall, next to the tiny Bailey who, Shelley couldn’t help noticing, sneaked a look at his crotch, to her at eye-level. She spoke again. ‘Ladies … and err gentlemen,’ peering over at the post-room boys, the only other males on the floor. ‘You probably all know Aidan Carter, Group Marketing Director. Aidan has taken a keen interest in the fortunes of Female Intuition over the past few months, and has personally determined to turn this magazine around. I give you your new Editor-in-Chief, Aidan Carter.’ A set of gasps escaped around the room like timed pistons. Aidan had no experience as an editor, he was abrasive and demanding, he already had another job and worst of all … He was a man. ‘Thank you, Sonia,’ Aidan began, putting a hand on one hip, which had the effect of brushing his suit jacket open and offering a glimpse of his chest muscles through an ever-so-slightly too tight shirt. Another chorus of appreciative breaths. ‘Firstly a couple of words about Kate Hurley,’ Aidan began. ‘A hero of mine. One of this country’s finest journalists, and a pioneering feminist. She had a mind like a razor, a heart like a lion, and balls of steel. She will be missed.’ Though unsure about the third simile, Shelley found herself muttering ‘hear, hear’ along with everyone else. ‘Do you know? My mother used to read this magazine,’ Aidan continued, lifting the latest issue and waving it at the team aggressively. ‘She loved it. This magazine helped her through some difficult times.’ Freya nodded sympathetically and put her head to one side, blinking those doe eyes. Bailey nodded sagely. Aidan walked over to the windows and everyone swivelled to follow. ‘She read this magazine in hospital when she had breast cancer,’ he continued, gazing meditatively out over North London. ‘She read this magazine at home after my father left her. She read this magazine in the nursing home as she watched over her own mother dying.’ He turned back to face the group, hands at his sides, his face simultaneously full of loss and warmth. Shelley felt a little funny, and squeezed her legs together and glanced around the room. Even Briony was staring at Carter, mouth open. Freya looked like she was about to have an orgasm. ‘Unfortunately my mother doesn’t read this magazine anymore,’ he said. ‘Do you want to know why?’ Briony hissed and mouthed ‘Dead?’. Shelley frowned back in distaste. ‘She thinks it’s too boring,’ Aiden said. Grumbling and shaking of heads. ‘Things have changed. My mother has changed. The world has changed. She wants more from her magazines these days. More stories about having fun and not so many about illness, more stories about love and not so many about heartbreak, more stories about life and less about death.’ ‘Fewer,’ Shelley said automatically. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘F-fewer stories about death,’ Shelley stammered. ‘Not less stories about death.’ Why had she said that? Was she to get herself fired just as the magazine was being saved? He stared at her hard, a strange look on his face, then he snapped out of his trance and walked off towards the window again. His square-jawed, brooding face shadowed before the May sunlight pouring in. ‘My mother is tired of sickness, sadness and saying goodbye,’ he continued. ‘That was the past. People choose life these days. People choose … happiness … and people choose sex.’ He spun for the finale. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to your new magazine.’ And with that he stepped over to an old ad board lying against the wall and flipped it to reveal a blown-up magazine cover. Briony had been wrong. The new editor wasn’t just going to faff about with fonts and page orders. He’d changed everything, including the name. The cover was an almost naked Mimi Corvair, the model recently dropped by most of her sponsors when she was filmed having a coke-snorting threesome with the boyfriends of two other models. Her days as a cover-girl had been declared well and truly over, and now she was relegated to the name-and-shame pages only. The lads’ mags still wanted her, but for what her agent considered the wrong reasons. If Aidan wanted her on the cover it meant he was trying to make a mark. He was trying to kill Female Intuition and get the revamped mag back in the press. That was shocking enough. But it was the new title that hit Shelley hardest. In hot pink, and crowding the raunchy image beneath with huge letters was the new, bold title. VIXEN. Aidan paused for a moment, and then continued: ‘I can’t let this magazine die, I owe it to West End, I owe it to you and I owe it to my mother.’ A solitary clapping from Bailey was taken up by the rest of the room, and soon even the post boys were joining in. But Shelley reckoned she wasn’t the only one who was totally terrified. If sex was the new direction this magazine was taking, then she wasn’t at all sure it was the right place for her. Sex wasn’t really her thing. She’d only done it a few times, and if we were talking, y’know, proper sex, she’d only done it with two different men. As they stood and applauded, she wasn’t thinking about the future of the magazine, or the fresh opportunities she was being presented with. She was trying to remember if she’d even had any actual sex at all in the last year. Chapter Two (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) Briony and Shelley went to Dino’s for lunch, like they always did. Shelley toyed with a salad while they talked about the events of the morning. Aidan had told them that after lunch he was going to speak to each of them individually and define their new roles. Dishy as he was, Aidan was still management, and he used lots of phrases like ‘going forward’ as in, ‘We’ll roll out these new synergies, going forward,’ or, ‘We’ll revise our budgets quarterly, going forward’. The editor in Shelley wanted to point out that you could hardly do these things going backward. ‘Do you fancy him?’ Briony asked. ‘Do you?’ Shelley replied. ‘Yes, of course. The question is, do you?’ ‘Why is that the question?’ ‘Because Aidan’s obviously not interested in me, he’s interested in you.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Shelley said. ‘If he looked at anyone today, it was Freya.’ Briony snorted, ‘Only because she hung off him and kept getting in his way. Aidan Carter wouldn’t go for a girl like her anyway.’ She chased a troublesome cherry tomato around her plate with a fork as she spoke. ‘Why not?’ Shelley asked, intrigued. Briony speared the tomato savagely, splattering juice over the plate. Then she looked up and eyed Shelley mischievously. ‘Because he’s the kind of man who likes a challenge.’ Shelley shivered. ‘So I suppose that’s why he wouldn’t be interested in you,’ was the best comeback she could manage. Briony laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose so. So what are you going to do about it?’ ‘Nothing,’ Shelley replied, pouring herself more Diet Coke to avoid having to look at Briony’s smirk. ‘Anyway, how do you know so much about Aidan?’ ‘I’ve been looking at his CV.’ ‘What?’ ‘Don’t play the innocent, I know you googled him after the Christmas party.’ ‘Don’t be disgusting!’ Shelley snapped. ‘I did not!’ Briony sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘I mean you looked him up on Google.’ ‘Oh … yes. Yes, I did,’ Shelley agreed. ‘I thought googling meant something else in that context.’ Briony looked puzzled for a moment. ‘People these days like to write about themselves on social networking sites, you know, like Facebook or MySpace. If you want to know about someone, you just look them up. Aidan Carter’s MySpace page is very revealing.’ ‘Really? What does it say?’ ‘It says he’s single and looking for love. His ideal woman is his intellectual equal, someone who gives as good as she gets, in the office and the bedroom.’ Shelley wilted. ‘Well that’s me out then,’ she said. ‘You’re not his equal in the office?’ Briony asked, smirking. ‘I meant the bedroom,’ Shelley replied. ‘Nonsense,’ Briony said. ‘You’re just out of practice.’ ‘Fat chance of getting any of that in the near future, the hours I’m working,’ Shelley said. ‘You’re making excuses. Your problem is that you don’t put yourself out there enough, you never go out these days, you’ve had three dates in the last two years … how many times have you had sex in the last year?’ ‘I had sex at my birthday party,’ Shelley retorted a bit loudly, drawing interested looks from the neighbouring tables. ‘With that accountant,’ she went on, in a hushed tone. Briony went back to smiling. ‘So that was a fumble in the cloakroom at Jerusalem, with a spod, two days after your 25th birthday, and when was the time before that?’ Shelley had to think hard. Then it hit her. ‘It was at my 24th birthday party. With the guy from the video store.’ ‘Which was a week before your actual birthday,’ Briony said. ‘So that means …’ ‘I didn’t have sex once during my entire 25th year,’ Shelley completed, now thoroughly miserable. As a coup-de-grace, Briony whipped out her magazine, already open at an article titled ‘Women’s sexual peak now at 25’. ‘That’s not true!’ Shelley cried. ‘Everyone knows it’s 40 for women. I was looking forward to it.’ Briony shrugged. ‘Sorry, Bird. Scientists are never wrong about these things.’ Shelley took a mouthful of lettuce and munched thoughtfully. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of sex, it was just that … well, just she had never been any good at it. As soon as she got naked with someone, she just froze up. She’d read all the magazines. She had a collection of steamy novels and she even had some videos. She knew the theory, but that almost made it worse, she knew the things she was supposed to be doing, and the fact she wasn’t doing them preyed on her mind and caused her to seize up even more. All she could think about was how awful the man must be finding it. There had even been times back at university where men had made excuses and left without finishing. Even back then Shelley had known that for a man not to finish was a pretty big deal. Briony interrupted her thoughts. ‘So what about Gavin?’ Shelley stared at her, outraged. Realisation crept in. ‘So that’s what this is all about? You still want me to go out with Gavin?’ ‘Actually, Shelley, I want you to stay in with Gavin and fuck him till his cock breaks off.’ Gavin was Briony’s ex-boyfriend’s best mate. Shelley had been introduced to him at a party. She suspected that, being slightly geeky herself, she was paired off with him in the way that one might pair off the only two estate agents at a magazine launch. They’d better fancyeach other cos there’s no-one else. Shelley had fumed. Didn’t they appreciate there is a geek hierarchy? Shelley was slightly geeky, Gavin on the other hand was an ubergeek. He looked the sort of person who’d designed and built a robot to cut his hair. And he was positively chubby; not that looks were everything. Gavin spent the evening following her about talking about Manga, which, as far as Shelley was concerned, were misogynistic Japanese comic books with terrible punctuation. Briony had apparently told him that Shelley was single and a real Manga fan. ‘Why did you tell him that?’ Shelley hissed at her while Gavin was off on one of his regular toilet breaks. ‘I didn’t know Manga was comics,’ Briony had said in self-defence. ‘What did you think it was?’ ‘I thought Manga was a Spanish film director,’ Briony replied sheepishly. ‘You’re into that kind of thing, aren’t you?’ To make matters worse, Briony had given Gavin Shelley’s phone number and told him to call her to arrange a date. Shelley and Briony had had a falling out over this that involved ashtrays being thrown and the subject was still raw. Briony went on. ‘I sort of told him you might like to see him tonight.’ ‘You did what?!’ ‘Well you told me you weren’t busy. He said he had tickets to the Abba thing, you like musicals …’ ‘I don’t like musicals.’ ‘Course you do, you’re always off down to Theatre Land.’ ‘Yes, to the theatre, I like going to the theatre. Do you ever actually listen to what I say?’ ‘Theatre, musicals, same thing. Anyway, I thought that since you can’t seem to get your act into gear then I’d have to do it for you. I’m going to make sure you get some sex soon, and I’m not fussy about who you do it with.’ The man at the next table was definitely interested now. He kept trying to catch Shelley’s eye. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Honestly Briony, you’re a good mate and you’ve always stood by me, and I know you’re trying to help, but not Gavin. There’s just no way. Sorry.’ ‘Look, he fancies you. What more do you want? How many other men have asked you out lately?’ ‘Oh God,’ Shelley groaned, head in hands. ‘You know you’re a minger when only other mingers ask you out.’ ‘You’re not a minger, Shell,’ Briony said. ‘You’re actually very pretty and you know it, but you need to start off on mingers until you get your groove back, then you can play with the big boys again. You know, work your way up through the grades.’ ‘You sound like a boxing coach.’ ‘That’s how you should think of me. I’m your coach, I know what’s good for you and I’m going to make sure Gavin gets into your ring.’ ‘Oh you’re vile, Briony. Stop it.’ ‘It’s not as if he’s an axe-murderer,’ Briony pleaded. ‘We know him.’ ‘Yes we know him,’ Shelley hissed, ‘and may I just remind you that it was only a couple of weeks ago that you yourself referred to Gavin as a “cartoon-reading salad-dodger”. Now let’s drop it.’ ‘Okay,’ Briony said grabbing her bag. ‘Let’s pop to the pub after work, you can see if you feel the same way after a couple of bottles.’ ‘I’d feel the same way after emptying Oliver Reed’s drinks cabinet,’ Shelley said as she marched past Briony and out the door. After lunch, they were too nervous to do any work. Shelley didn’t see much point in continuing with her column – ‘Noughties Loving’ – if everything was going to be changed around. And as far as she knew, she might end up getting the sack after all, especially after correcting Aidan’s grammar during his grand speech. Aidan had posted up a schedule on the notice board giving everyone a 15-minute slot for an individual meeting in his office. Shelley was about half-way down, just after Freya who in turn was straight after Briony. She and Briony sat and watched as people filed in nervously and came again a quarter-hour later, some looking happy, some looking glum but most just looking gob-smacked. Stella Stargazer, who did the horoscopes (real name Moira something), stormed back out to her desk, packed up her things in a cardboard box and stomped straight out muttering ‘disgusting’ under her breath every few seconds. Shelley looked on wide-eyed. ‘She didn’t predict that,’ Freya reflected as she passed, then giggled at her own joke. Shelley watched her go. ‘What a cow!’ she muttered. ‘And why is she so confident?’ Maybe Freya did know something. ‘You know what else I read about him on MySpace?’ Briony said, out of the blue. ‘What’s that?’ ‘He has a back, sack and crack done every three months.’ ‘What!’ Shelley spat. ‘He wrote that on MySpace?’ ‘Well, as good as. His blog said he visited Jen’s Unisex Hair removal salon last week for his quarterly treatment.’ ‘That’s not necessarily to have his … ball-hair torn out,’ Shelley protested. ‘What else would he go for? His nostril hair?’ ‘Why would someone write that on a blog? Is there no personal space anymore?’ ‘Not everyone is as prudish as you, Shell, Aidan has over two hundred friends on his space, he can’t possibly keep up with all of them all of the time, so he writes a blog letting everyone know what he’s up to. Anyway, the reason he mentioned the trip to the salon was to recount an amusing anecdote about what happened while he was there. I don’t think he’s one of those losers who keep a meticulous log of his every waking move.’ Shelley wasn’t really listening though, she was thinking about Aidan’s sleek, well-muscled back, his rock-hard, hairless buttocks, and two shiny-smooth … ‘Bollocks!’ someone shouted from Aidan’s office, which happened to be situated right behind Shelley. Then the door was flung open and Maya, one of the subeditors, marched out. Then she turned around and shouted back through the open door. ‘It’s all bollocks, Aiden Carter, and I’m not having it!’ She followed Stella Stargazer down the stairs. The other subs went back to checking copy. It was Briony’s turn next; Aidan popped out before she went in and said: ‘I’d love a coffee, anyone else want one?’ The room went as quiet as a library. No editor had ever made even their own coffee, let alone made one for someone else. No one replied except Briony. ‘Yes. I would, thanks. White with three,’ she said. ‘Righto,’ Aidan said cheerfully and disappeared into the kitchen. Shelley looked at her quizzically. ‘You already have a coffee,’ she pointed out. ‘I know. I want to see how well made his coffee is. Is he just trying to create a good impression by offering to make a cup? Is this the first cup he’s ever made? Or does he make a habit of it? If it’s shit, we’ll know he’s a fraud. If it’s good, we know we can trust him.’ Almost without thinking Shelley answered. ‘I trust him.’ Shelley surfed the net absently while she waited for Freya’s interview to be finished. Briony had come out of Aidan’s office looking thoughtful, but told Shelley she wanted to think things over before talking much about it. All she’d say was that Aidan had presented her with a challenge, an assignment tougher than anything she’d done before. ‘We’ll talk about it tonight, yeah?’ Briony said absently, checking her phone for messages. This of course made Shelley even more nervous and she tried to do some work to take her mind off it. She was half-heartedly researching an idea she’d had for her column, which she was sure would never see the light of day again, at least not in its current form, but she needed to do something. Her column was supposedly about twenty-something singletons looking for love in the big city, but she was no Carrie Bradshaw and sometimes wondered if she should rename the column ‘Sad in the City’. For the past three issues she’d written pretty much the same column, how difficult it was to meet a man who wasn’t gay, hygienically-challenged, socially inept or carrying more baggage than a kleptomaniac Sherpa. She needed something new. She had an idea to write about the new craze supposedly sweeping the singles bars – Nude Speed Dating. The reasoning was this: why go through all the trouble of spending five minutes finding the right life partner, only to find when you got them into bed that they had an unpleasant mole somewhere intimate? Or that the blonde hair came out of a bottle? It’s the future after all, who has that kind of time? Shelley clicked on the site of one of the companies that organised the evenings and waited for the page to load up on the crappy old Mac, only to be greeted by a full-screen, hi-res image of the naked torsos of a man and a woman, each holding a drink. Shelley stared in horror at the well-toned bodies, the woman’s perky breasts and the man’s only partially flaccid penis. She stabbed with the cursor to close the image, but the computer was old, and had to think a while before attempting to perform the simplest tasks. The door to Aidan’s office opened behind her and Shelley turned, feeling her face turn crimson. Aidan stepped out first and turned to wait for Freya to emerge, glancing curiously at Shelley’s monitor as he did so. Freya came out afterwards, beaming and shook Aidan’s hand warmly. ‘Thanks so much, Aidan,’ she said ingratiatingly, ‘I really appreciate this opportunity.’ She walked back to her desk, swinging her hips and looking very much like the cat that’d got the cream. ‘I hate her,’ Briony whispered. Shelley nodded. ‘Come on then Shelley, let’s be having you,’ Aidan said. Briony snorted as she walked into Aidan’s new office and the door closed behind her. ‘Now we have met before, haven’t we?’ Aidan said as he ushered Shelley into a comfy chair. ‘You held the lift for me yesterday,’ she replied. ‘Such a gentleman.’ Oh God, she thought, who do I think I am, Elizabeth Bennett? Aidan smiled, then immediately frowned, ‘Yes, but I’m sure we met before that, properly …?’ ‘Yes,’ Shelley confirmed, ‘at the …’ and she blushed again. What was wrong with her? ‘… at the Christmas party last year.’ ‘Yes of course,’ Aidan said beaming, ‘“Macarena”, wasn’t it?’ ‘I … no. That was …’ she said. ‘Good,’ he said, looking down at the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘Now, I’m going to cut to the chase here, we don’t have much time. Your column, though well-written and very funny, is not going to be suitable for the new look of the magazine.’ Shelley was disappointed, even though she’d been expecting this. She’d half-hoped Aidan would say something like ‘Yours is the only bit I’m not going to change – it’s brilliant!’ ‘Instead,’ Aidan went on. ‘I’d like you to do more investigative work. There’s no point having you stuck in the office writing … well, what you have been writing. I want you out there on the streets, undercover, getting me some grade-A hot stories.’ Could it be true? Could Aidan really want her to do hard-hitting investigative reporting? This is what she became a journalist for. This is what she’d dreamed of as a girl, and throughout university. She imagined herself hanging around the bars in Westminster looking for ministers willing to speak off the record, or blagging her way into the retinue of a gangsta rapper crime lord in South London. ‘I’ve already arranged your first undercover role,’ said Aiden. Shelley sat forward in her chair. ‘It’s a lot of work. I’ll want a few thousand words a day.’ Shelley raised her eyebrows, but nodded. She could do that, she could do anything. ‘There’d be a bonus in it if you deliver,’ Aidan went on. Shelley tried not to think in terms of bottles of The Crown’s finest dry white. ‘A few thousand words on what?’ she asked. He sat back in his chair, grinned broadly. ‘The Secret Diary of a Sex Addict!’ A lengthy pause followed. The tick-tock of Kate Hurley’s ancient clock counted the treacherous seconds away as Shelley stared at her boss. This couldn’t be right. ‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard you,’ she said. ‘You said Secret Diary of a … What Addict?’ ‘SexAddict,’ Aidan repeated, gazing back at her steadily. Shelley was floored. She’d been hoping to move away from love-soaked frippery and gossip; she desperately wanted to do hard-nosed, real journalism. Instead Aidan seemed determined to take her backwards. How could she, of all people, write a column from the point of view of a sex addict? ‘I need you to pretend to be addicted to sex.’ Aidan said, leafing through some pages on his desk. ‘We’ll come up with some convincing story for you. You can join a group, I already have most of this arranged, by the way. You’ll take a week to put together some stories. Feed them through and I’ll put them up on the blog site, when the next issue comes out we’ll run the best. We want them sexy, you understand? We want details.’ Shelley’s head spun. Was Aidan testing her? Or was he hoping to get rid of her? Did he want another walk of shame? Should she follow Stargazer and Maya the Sub down to Benny’s wine bar to drown her sorrows and draft her resignation? Aidan didn’t speak. No, she couldn’t bear the thought of walking out now. She wouldn’t let smug Freya have the satisfaction, for a start. They’d given her a challenge they thought she’d fail, because they thought she was weak. But she wasn’t weak. She was a tough journalist, she could handle any assignment. Even sex? ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, firmly. ‘Great,’ he said looking down at his papers again. ‘The course starts on Monday but you have to be at the centre on Sunday for orientation. Take a BlackBerry, you’ll need to smuggle it in. You’re to use the BlackBerry to e-mail your copy in and to communicate with us if necessary, but only by e-mail please. The IT department tell me they’re bound to notice if someone starts using a phone, but they’re unlikely to monitor wireless e-mail communications.’ ‘You make it sound like I’m infiltrating the Kremlin,’ Shelley protested. ‘The centre’s clients are strictly forbidden to contact the outside world, Shelley,’ Aidan said, earnestly. ‘They’re very clear about that. They will be watching you closely and if they catch you they’ll throw you off the course, we’ll lose the story and a lot of money.’ What Aidan left unspoken was what exactly might happen to Shelley’s job if this happened. ‘Thanks for your time, Shelley,’ Aidan said, signalling the end of the interview. She left the office feeling about as confused as she’d ever been in 25 extremely confusing years. Chapter Three (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) ‘I don’t see what the problem is with landfill sites,’ Freya was saying to Briony in her squeaky, we’re-all-matey-inthe-pub voice. ‘If they don’t fill the land we’ll just have big holes everywhere.’ Briony and Shelley stared back at her, trying to work out if she was serious. Freya was almost never invited to the pub after work. She was intensely irritating at the best of times and if you went around inviting her to things, she’d just take it as endorsement of her obnoxiousness. Shelley and Briony would normally be baiting her and trying to get her onto the subject of immigration, where she leaned slightly to the right of Hitler, and if she’d include the Polish girl who cleaned the loos, but tonight Shelley’s heart wasn’t in it. The buzz at the table was of the changes Aidan had wrought at the magazine. Everyone’s job had changed. Even the post-room boys, who had been asked to start a blog about being the only men in an organisation stuffed with desperate young women, with a particular focus on all those ‘special deliveries’ they made to the girls in marketing. The common theme of course was sex. The fashion shoots were going to feature more scantily-clad models, sliding over buff-torsoed men. There were to be more features on sex tips, marital aids and true-life experiences. Jen DuCroix, Features Editor, was excited about the prospect of road-testing the new vibrator on the block, the Berserk Bunny. Poor old Monica Bellamy, ad-sales executive and within spitting distance of retirement, had been asked to up the tit-count in the classifieds. Vixen was going to allow, and indeed encourage, phone-sex ads, albeit targeted at the female market. This meant ads for lingerie, dildos and even male escorts. ‘But it’s just pornography,’ Shelley protested, as Karen told them about her new feature, ‘How to Make Him Think You’re a Virgin’. Freya snorted. ‘Don’t be such a prude, Shelley. All the women’s magazines these days have a bit of slap and tickle about them. It doesn’t have to be crude. What’s wrong with a bit of tasteful erotica?’ ‘She’s right,’ Briony said. ‘As much as I hate to admit it. It’s not as if the mag’s going to be wall-to-wall cock.’ ‘Yes,’ Freya continued. ‘Look at my new role for example.’ None of them had asked her about her job, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. ‘Aidan knows I have psych degree as well as my Masters in Journalism. Well, he’s asked me to write a series of feature articles on the psychology of relationships. Each is practically guaranteed to be a cover story.’ ‘The psychology of relationships?’ Shelley butted in. ‘Sounds a bit vague. Any particular aspect of relationships?’ Freya appeared momentarily shaken but quickly rallied. ‘The physical side, mostly.’ ‘Aha!’ Briony cried triumphantly. ‘You’re writing about sex like the rest of us. Let me guess, “What He’s Secretly Fantasising About”, or “10 Psychology Tips to get him Interested”. That sort of thing?’ Freya scowled. ‘Well, sex is important in a relationship, it’s certainly one of the main things that keep the spark alive between Harry and me.’ This last was delivered while she stared coldly at Shelley. ‘A satisfactory love life is essential in being fulfilled as a woman.’ ‘So what’s your new assignment?’ Shelley asked, pointedly turning away from Freya. ‘You still haven’t told us.’ Briony smiled and very nearly looked embarrassed. ‘Aidan wants me to write a monthly column in which I describe a sexual experience. A new one every time.’ ‘What, one of your experiences?’ Freya asked. ‘Yes, I basically find a willing partner, or partners, once a month, shag them and write about it.’ Shelley couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘He’s asking you to prostitute yourself.’ Briony rolled her eyes. ‘No he’s not; he’s just asking me to write about my life. I’m a shagaholic already.’ Shelley had to admit this was true. Despite having a sort-of boyfriend, who didn’t seem to care what she got up to, Briony had slept with an enormous number of people, including the occasional woman, during the two years they’d shared the dishevelled flat near the tube station. Sometimes Shelley was woken in the night by vibrations and was never quite sure if they were caused by Central line trains pulling into the station, or her energetic friend. Why hadn’t Aidan asked Briony to go to the clinic? She was a real-life sex addict. Maybe he had asked her and she’d refused? Or maybe he didn’t want her cured? Aidan wasn’t stupid, and it was obvious he’d done some background checking on his new staff to find out how they might be useful to him. Shelley was sitting with her back to the bar. The pub was nothing special, just one of those interchangeable inner London pubs. But it sold a decent house white and there were generally big tables available if you got in early enough, which Briony and Shelley normally did. Freya was looking over Shelley’s shoulder and smirking. Shelley groaned inwardly, she knew what was coming. ‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ Freya said. Shelley didn’t have to look. It was her favourite barman, the South African. ‘Oh drop it,’ Shelley said, shaking her head. ‘Yes,’ Briony added, coming to her rescue. ‘Shelley already has a date tonight.’ One of Freya’s eyebrows raised itself just enough to make Shelley want to kill her. ‘Really?’ The fashion editor asked in the same disbelieving tone she might have used had Briony just told her Shelley had invented salt. ‘Yes, she’s going to a party with Gavin,’ Briony said. Shelley’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her former friend. ‘What on God’s blue-green Earth made you tell her that?’ Freya’s smirk had reached warp factor nine by now. ‘I don’t think I know Gavin.’ she said. ‘He likes Manga,’ Briony explained. ‘I see,’ Freya said in a tone that suggested it all made perfect sense now. ‘I do not have a date with Gavin,’ Shelley ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I find him hugely repulsive on both physical and intellectual levels.’ Freya nodded, after a slight pause. ‘I did think Shelley would have been a little out of his league,’ she said to Briony. Shelley swallowed slowly. She wasn’t used to support from Freya, albeit lukewarm. Briony was on her third super-sized glass by now though and apparently oblivious to how close she was to having the ice bucket rammed down her throat. ‘Remember our discussion though, Shell, start a few rungs down the ladder, until you get your confidence back.’ Freya nodded in appreciation of this soundly-made point. ‘Just out of interest, Briony,’ Shelley said in as reasonable tone as she could muster. ‘To what sort of level would you say I should aspire?’ ‘On the Hollywood celebrity gauge?’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘What about Jim Carrey?’ said Karen. ‘You can do better than that,’ Ash from Accounts called from further up the table. ‘What about James Woods?’ ‘How about we leave the Jims behind?’ said Shelley. ‘Let’s start thinking in terms of Brads and Georges.’ ‘George Lucas?’ Freya suggested. Shelley shook her head. ‘George Bush?’ Briony said. Shelley kicked her. ‘He’s not Hollywood.’ ‘Ouch!’ ‘Oh we’re getting nowhere,’ said Shelley.’ What about you then, what’s your celeb level?’ Briony considered for a moment. ‘Matt Damon,’ she said confidently. Shelley laughed out loud, but then realised everyone was nodding along in agreement. ‘What? You think you could get Matt Damon?’ Briony shook her head. ‘You’ve missed the point Shell, the idea of the game is to find your level, not to speculate on who you might be able to get into bed. I’m a Matt Damon, Freya here is a Bill Pullman, physically that is, personality-wise she’s a Steve Buscemi, Ashley is a Gene Hackman – no offence Ash – and you are an Elliott Gould, or possibly one of the Baldwins.’ Shelley stared back icily. ‘But if you go up to that barman and get his number, then maybe I can bump you up to a David Schwimmer.’ Briony snatched the bottle from the ice bucket sitting in the middle of the table and poured the last of it into her enormous glass. ‘Your round I think.’ All conversation had stopped and everyone watched smiling as Shelley got to her feet and walked to the bar. As she went, a path opened up magically before her in the busy pub, a path which led straight to a gap at the bar itself. Beyond the bar stood the South African, who, along with one of the other young bartenders, was dancing to a track pumping from the stereo. She watched his hips move and wondered briefly what it might be like to have those hips gyrating between her thighs, before crushing the thought like a grape. He saw her coming, stopped dancing and smiled broadly as she approached. Another punter waved a twenty at him from stage right but he kept his eyes fixed on Shelley. She reached the bar and smiled back. This was it. She didn’t need sex therapy; she didn’t need Briony to fix her up with comic-reading nerds. She was quite capable of forming romantic liaisons with attractive young men. She could feel the eyes of her colleagues burning into the small of her back. They were expecting her to fall to pieces again. But she knew exactly what she was going to say and do. She was going to ask him his name then she was going to ask him what time he finished. Two simple questions. She’d show them she wasn’t to be trifled with. She was a David Schwimmer, no, better than that, she was a David Duchovny. The barman leaned towards her. Too close. ‘What can I do for you, beautiful?’ he said and looked directly into her eyes, smiling at her as if she were a childhood sweetheart. She froze. His smile dropped a millimetre. ‘Do you want something to drink?’ ‘Ub … ub … ub.’ She could smell his aftershave. She wanted to cradle his rough-looking head against her flat, naked stomach and at the same time she wanted to run screaming into the night. He peered quizzically at her. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘What was that?’ ‘P-Pinot Grigio?’ Shelley squeaked. He looked disappointed and gave her a bemused stare before nodding and turning away. ‘Coming right up,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Shelley said, slamming the new bottle back in the ice bucket. She felt like crawling inside the bucket herself, freezing herself solid. There had been a girl at university with Shelley whom everyone called the Ice Queen. She hardly spoke to boys and rumours flew that she was a lesbian, or a man-hater, then a vampire. Shelley sat next to her sometimes, discovered her name was Jane and they became casual friends. Jane was neither lesbian nor vampire, nor did she hate men. She was simply the most focused person Shelley had ever met. She didn’t care what people said about her, or what they thought. She was there to excel in her chosen field and she did so. Shelley admired her immensely and wished she had even half her self-possession. The problem was that Shelley did care what people thought. She did care what people said. She was terrified of rejection, desperate for approval and, not to put too fine a point on it, horny as hell a lot of the time. She didn’t freeze at the first sign of male attention because she was an ice queen, too cool for school. She froze because she was screwed up. And she hated herself for it. Shelley slumped in her seat, trying to avoid Freya’s simpering look of faux-sympathy, and Briony’s told-youso eyes. She felt the welcome buzz of her phone in the purse she had on a lanyard round her neck. She checked the text. ‘Oh hell’, she muttered under her breath. Bloody Gavin. She popped off to the loo, not wanting Briony peering over her shoulder while she tried to rid herself of the pest. She locked herself in a cubicle and read the text. Hi Shel, U gong 2 Alex prty then? CU there? She rapidly texted back Sorry am busy tonight. She sat and closed her eyes for a while trying to clear her head of racing thoughts. Then she pulled herself together and made to put the phone away. It buzzed in her hand. Gavin again. U at pub near ur work? We could meet there? She groaned and flexed her thumb, trying to figure out the best way of getting rid of him, she didn’t want to be rude, but … Am on way home with tummy ache. That should do it, she thought. She snapped the phone shut and made to open the door, but stopped when she heard someone enter. She wasn’t in the mood to have a loo chat just now so decided to wait. Someone barged into the cubicle next to hers and sat down heavily. Then she heard Freya’s voice. ‘I really can’t see Shelley staying, you know?’ ‘Why do you say that?’ Karen said from the next cubicle. ‘Well, the new focus of the magazine, it’s not really her thing, is it? What does she know about sex? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.’ ‘She’s a good writer,’ Karen said. Shelley smiled at this surprise bit of support. ‘Excellent grammar.’ There was a pause as Karen flushed and moved to the sink. ‘You’re right about her being sex-starved though, according to Briony, she gets as much action as a comatose nun.’ Freya giggled while Shelley fumed. She took a deep breath and prepared to fling open the door when her phone buzzed. Gavin again. Oh sorry to hear that – RU going to the Manga conventionon Sun? She heard the toilet door slam, her opportunity to confront Freya and Karen now gone. No. As she pressed send, she felt a brief pang of regret. She wasn’t sure though whether that was because she was being unnecessarily mean to Gavin, or because she was wondering whether she shouldn’t just do exactly what Briony was suggesting and sleep with him. No, she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet anyway. She finally left the cubicle and re-joined the table. ‘So go on then, Shell,’ Briony said, apparently having realised belatedly it was time to change the subject. ‘Tell us about your new assignment. You can’t keep it secret for ever, you know.’ ‘Yes, Shelley, what’s it all about? We’ve all told you what we’re up to,’ Freya pouted. The others, further up the table leaned in, anxious to hear this. Shelley shrunk in on herself. She hadn’t even decided if she was doing it yet. How could she pretend to be a sex addict when she wasn’t even a David Schwimmer? ‘Erm, it involves being away for a few weeks, going undercover …’ Shelley began, hoping to keep it vague. ‘Undercover as what?’ Karen asked. Shelley’s phone buzzed again, offering an escape route. I h8 prties, wanna cum to mine instead and shag tilldawn? Shelley flipped the phone shut and turned to Briony. ‘What have you been telling him?’ Briony blinked innocently. ‘Who?’ ‘Right, that’s it,’ Shelley said finally, pouring herself a large drink. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m getting the hell away from London, away from Gavin the pervert, Aidan the sex fiend and you bunch of unsympathetic, unamusing nymphomaniacs. God alone knows what I’ll find at the sex addiction clinic Aidan’s booked me into, but I doubt they can be any more obsessed with knobbing than you lot.’ And with that, she drained the wine, grabbed her bag and walked out, but not before she heard Freya screeching behind her. ‘Sex addiction clinic! Old maid’s clinic, more like. What a joke!’ ‘Sorry about last night, Shell,’ Briony said the next morning. ‘We took it a bit too far. We were only teasing.’ ‘It’s fine,’ Shelley replied, smiling at her across the debris covering the sitting-room floor. It looked like rooms in films when the hero returns to find mysterious agents have turned the place upside down looking for a secret diary. Something had happened here last night involving at least two men and an electrical device. Shelley had woken to hear crashing, giggling and the occasional screech. Well used to this, she’d stuffed her ears with two sets of earplugs and turned on Classic FM. Even so, after the wall behind her head started wobbling in synchronism with someone getting a firm rogering she began to wonder if she shouldn’t have gone to Gavin’s after all. ‘Are you going to be writing about this, er, encounter?’ Shelley asked as Briony buttered some toast for her. Briony snorted. ‘God no. Neither of them was very inventive. I had to finish myself off in the end. Literally.’ Over coffee, and trying to ignoring the gentle snoring from one of the men behind the sofa. Shelley fired up her BlackBerry and checked her mail. As she’d hoped there was a message from Aidan. ‘He’s sent me my cover story,’ she told Briony who’d come to join her. Briony eagerly peered over Shelley’s shoulder at the tiny screen. The girls read for a while, Shelley scrolling. Aidan hadn’t gone into too much depth but nonetheless had included a small amount of quite raunchy background information. ‘Hmmm, interesting that Aidan would think this sort of thing when he thinks of you.’ Shelley was to tell the psychologists at the clinic that she was a nurse with a tendency to hop into bed with her patients. That she had some kind of deep-seated urge not only to nurse sick men back to health, but to nurse them to orgasm too. Not just patients either, doctors, other nurses, anyone vaguely connected with the medical profession. Aidan was acting as her concerned brother trying to save her sanity as well as her career after a complaint had been received from her previous hospital. Aidan promised more details later. In the meantime, she was to make her way to the clinic, start getting some sizzling real-life stories and e-mailing them back to the office via her BlackBerry. ‘Shell,’ Briony said softly, from behind her left shoulder. ‘Yes?’ Shelley replied, waiting for the snide remark. ‘I think you’re going to be brilliant at this.’ Shelley turned around to look at her friend, expecting to find her suppressing a sarcastic cackle. But Briony returned her gaze levelly. ‘I mean it, Shell. You’re a great writer, a great journalist.’ ‘Thanks Brie,’ Shelley replied filling up a bit. ‘That means a lot. I’d made up my mind to do it anyway, but it helps to know I have some support. I’m leaving today in fact. I won’t be back for a couple of weeks.’ Briony smiled. ‘That’s probably just as well, really. You don’t want to hang around here too long.’ ‘Why’s that?’ ‘I may have texted Gavin last night and told him you liked it … er, you know, in the backdoor. I was drunk!’ she added, by way of explanation. Shelley paused for a moment, and then leapt at Briony over the back of the sofa, knocking her over. The man behind the sofa was woken by two women crashing on top of him, but not in a good way. Chapter Four (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) Shelley took a train out to Northampton, then jumped in a taxi to the gates of the centre, which was somewhere near the border with Warwickshire. She stared thoughtfully at the discreet plaque on the right fence post as the driver turned in the road and drove off. ‘Fresh Paths’ was all the plaque said. This was the place. An Edwardian manor house set in two-hundred acres of sprawling countryside. It was a grey spring day and the daffodils were well past their best, standing slightly flaccid, petals turning brown. Shelley shrugged, hefted her case and crunched her way along the gravel path towards her new beginning. Shelley’s first sexual experience of any account had happened at school. Her friend Rhianna had told her Tom Broachfield fancied her and would she be at all interested in meeting him at lunchtime behind the toilet block. Rhianna was to come too, with her boyfriend, Rod. Though perhaps not the place you might first consider as a love den, the toilets had the advantage of being underused, due to the smell, as well as being out of sight of the school buildings. The bike shed was otherwise engaged, being the place to go for illicit smoking. Shelley had gone along out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity, as well as loyalty to her friend. The boys were duly waiting for them behind the shed, looking nervous. ‘All right?’ they said. Rhianna and Rod got right down to business, having dispensed with the formalities on a previous occasion. Shelley sat next to Tom and tried not to listen to the thick glooping sounds coming from the snogging couple. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, and neither, as it turned out, did Tom. Eventually he hissed in a sort of ‘Oh-sod-it-I’m-going-in’ kind of way and made a lunge at Shelley. As she was facing forwards, and made no effort to turn to meet the kiss, he ended up planting a smacker half on her cheek and half on her lip. She sat, stunned. Then he sort of grabbed her face, twisted it in a way supposed to be sensual, but more clammy in effect, and managed to plant one on her lips, which she kept firmly closed. This went on for some time, and then the bell went. Shelley left, feeling a bit underwhelmed. ‘You’ll be fine next time,’ Rhianna assured her as they walked back to double maths. ‘So do you fancy him then?’ Shelley hadn’t even considered this. Was she supposed to? She liked boys, at least, boys in magazines, and on the telly. The thought of wanting to kiss one of the ones in her class seemed a bit different though. These boys were real, not fantasies. It was as though someone had just told you had to marry your brother. ‘S’pose,’ she replied. Shelley walked in to the grand, Regency-style reception area and was greeted by one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, standing behind a counter. He had madly stylish hair, loose sculpted curls, and wore a blue Paul Smith shirt with the top button undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He also looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen him on the centre’s website? ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling broadly at her. ‘I’m Cian.’ ‘Hello, Cian,’ Shelley replied. ‘I’m Shelley and I’m here for the Sex Addiction programme.’ And then, extraordinarily, the man winked at her. ‘I bet you are, my darling,’ he said, rather suggestively, and then looked at her breasts. ‘Ready for your examination?’ This didn’t seem right. Surely the last person you need on the counter at a sex clinic is Casanova’s less-reserved brother. ‘Mr O’Connor!’ A voice shouted from the other side of the entrance hall. ‘I’ve told you not to talk to the other patients yet, and get out from behind there. That’s for staff only.’ ‘Sorry!’ Cian giggled and winked at Shelley again. The owner of the voice arrived, a short, blonde lady of indeterminate age carrying a clipboard and with her hair in a tight bun. The dowdy suit wasn’t just snug on her, it was tight in all the wrong places, making her torso look like a collection of over-filled water-balloons held together by a woollen sack and secured with tightened belts. ‘Verity Parrish,’ the lady said, proffering a hand. Shelley shook it and smiled. ‘Shelley Carter,’ she said. ‘Of course, you’re the last to arrive,’ Verity said, ticking something off on her clipboard. ‘Of course? Am I late?’ Shelley asked in alarm. ‘Not at all, everyone else was early, that’s all, must be doubly keen to get on with it, I suppose.’ She frowned at Shelley, eyes seeming to ask a question. ‘Me too!’ Shelley said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Let’s beat this damn addiction.’ ‘Leave your bag here. The porter will take it up to your room. You need to just pop along to see Dr Jones, who will chat with you and ask you to sign a couple of forms, and then we’ll see you in the Mounting Room for an introductory session at three sharp.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Shelley said. ‘Did you say the Mounting Room?’ Verity gave her a stern look. ‘Oh dear. I can see we’ll have our work cut out with you. First floor, room 103,’ she said and walked off. Shelley trudged up the sweeping staircase. Behind her a tubby woman in a tabard stomped out of a side door, saw Shelley’s bag and sighed. ‘Oh fan-fucking-tastic, another pervert’s arrived.’ Shelley inspected the fire-escape plan on the wall, trying to memorise the layout of the centre. The building was composed of three floors, the conference, dining and treatment rooms were on the ground floor along with the kitchens. The first floor held offices and staff quarters. The second floor was mostly patient accommodation. Shelley counted twenty of these en-suite rooms in the building’s two wings. In addition to the main building, there were outbuildings including the drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, a pool and gym complex and some sheds and what-not. She had already noted the entire complex was enclosed by a twelve-foot wall, useful for keeping people in as well as out. Shelley started to wonder whether Aidan’s plan wasn’t just to stick her here out of the way while he got on with re-organising the magazine. Why hadn’t he just fired her? Did he want to force her to resign, giving up any redundancy she might be entitled to? She stumped down the neutrally-decorated corridor, feet silent on the plush carpet and reached room 103. She knocked. ‘Come in!’ a voice called from inside. Shelley found the director of the centre, Dr Janet Jones, sitting behind an enormous desk almost empty apart from a tiny laptop and a single sheet of paper. Shelley judged she might be in her late fifties, though perhaps younger as the menopause might explain her florid complexion. She had light brown hair, probably dyed. ‘Shelley Carter?’ Dr Jones asked. ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly, without waiting for a response. Shelley did as she was told. ‘So,’ Dr Jones said, pulling a manila folder out of a drawer. She peered into it. ‘You’re a nurse?’ ‘Yes,’ Shelley replied. She had been worrying she might get found out, but if this was the level of the questioning, she had no concerns. ‘You have a penchant for sleeping with patients.’ Dr Jones said matter-of-factly. ‘And doctors, and other nurses,’ Shelley replied. ‘You are bisexual?’ Dr Jones inquired. ‘The file doesn’t make it clear.’ ‘Err yeah, sure. ‘Shelley said, realising she was making it all up anyway. ‘In for a penny.’ ‘Who’s Penny? A lover?’ Dr Jones inquired, an eyebrow raised. ‘No, just an expression,’ Shelley replied. Dr Jones pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Nurse Smith, could you come to Dr Jones’ office for an examination please?’ Shelley froze. Examination? Was this to be a physical examination? Worse yet, was she to be searched? Suddenly the BlackBerry in her inside jacket pocket felt enormous, she was sure Dr Jones must be able to see the bulge. ‘It’s a little stuffy in here,’ Shelley said. ‘Do you mind if I remove my jacket?’ ‘Not at all,’ Dr Jones said absently, still reading through Shelley’s file. Shelley stood, took off her jacket and walked over to the hat stand in the corner, she popped the jacket on a hook and sat back down just as the door opened. The plump nurse came in, saw Shelley and rolled her eyes. Dr Jones looked up. ‘Thank you Sandra, please could you …’ and she waved airily at Shelley. ‘Behind that screen please,’ Sandra said. Shelley did as she asked, terrified she’d notice the jacket and want to check that too. Behind the screen, Sandra looked her in the eye and whispered, ‘You’d better not look like you’re enjoying this.’ Shelley blinked by way of response. ‘Cos most of your lot do, you know. I’m not here to give you cheap thrills. Now turn around and spread your legs.’ Shelley was too shocked to do anything but obey. Sandra had one of those authoritative voices possessed only by senior nurses and royalty. Shelley heard Sandra’s knees crack and then felt rough hands running up her leg. She found herself wishing she’d shaved. As Sandra’s hand slid between her legs, Shelley tensed and was sure the nurse must realise what she was feeling was the exact opposite of someone enjoying the experience. Surely she’d be found out. Sandra ran her hands up Shelley’s sides, cupped her breasts and patted down her back. ‘She’s clear,’ the nurse said and stumped off. Shelley straightened herself and went back to Dr Jones’s desk. Dr Jones suddenly sighed, as if tired of the whole affair. Shelley noticed her eyes flicker to the desk drawer. She pushed a couple of forms over to Shelley. ‘Would you mind signing these?’ ‘What are they?’ Shelley asked. Not that she really cared. Aidan would sort out any legal difficulties she got herself into. He’d promised her and though she wasn’t at all happy with her assignment she trusted him to not let her get into any serious difficulties. ‘One’s a Section Four voluntary admission form, the other is for insurance,’ Dr Jones replied, speaking slowly, now openly staring at the desk drawer. Shelley felt as if she were intruding. She signed the forms and pushed them back. ‘Right, good luck and all that,’ Dr Jones said vaguely. Shelley realised she was expected to leave now. ‘Right. Am I supposed to go to the Mounting Room now?’ Dr Jones peered at her intently, nodding slightly. ‘The Mountain Room, I think.’ ‘Ah. That makes more sense,’ Shelley replied, relieved. ‘Downstairs towards the back of the building, follow the signs,’ Dr Jones said as Shelley grabbed her jacket and left. ‘My name is Shelley …’ Shelley was saying. Seven expectant faces looked at her interestedly, urging her on. She paused and looked around at the room. It said ‘Sales Conference’ to her. Bland d?cor, boring furniture, tedious pictures on the wall. And the inevitable brainstorming pad on an easel. Verity Parrish coughed beside her. ‘… and I’m a sex addict,’ Shelley finished. She shrugged and looked around at the group. Everyone wore a name tag. To Shelley’s right sat an attractive if slightly used-looking lady, probably in her forties, called Rose. Shelley vaguely recognised her, she thought, from some long-forgotten tabloid story. To Shelley’s left was a smooth forty-plus man; his name was Will. Facing her, from left to right, were Abigail, Cliff, Cheryl, Cian, and Larry. Verity hadn’t done formal introductions yet. The idea was that they were all supposed to give a little bit of a self-introduction before the main session got underway. During the course of the next week, each would have to give a full and frank account of why they were here. This would be a no-holds barred descent into the excesses that had led to them deciding they needed help. The magazine wasn’t really interested in how these people might be helped, or what happened to them later. Vixen was after the salacious ‘before’ details, not the more worthy but duller ‘after’ picture. Shelley tried to inspect her fellow inmates without making it obvious she was doing so. The others all seemed to be doing the same, apart from Larry, who was staring out the window. Shelley reckoned he was the only one younger than her. Shelley was first to speak that day – she’d agreed to that on condition she’d be last to give her full story, for which she was grateful. She figured she’d have till Friday before she’d have to make her ‘confessional’. The thought of it was already making her nervous. She was rubbish at lying and it wasn’t as if she had any appropriate life experiences to draw on. She was supposed to be a sex-obsessed nurse who’d spent the last eighteen months in Australia. Instead she was a sex-starved journalist who’d spent the last eighteen years in Clapham. ‘Just a little about yourself for now, please Shelley, you don’t need to go into detail just yet,’ Verity said in an encouraging, and slightly patronising, tone. Shelley took a deep breath and tried to remember the cover story Aidan had put together for her. ‘Er,’ she began. ‘I’m a nurse, and I got in trouble because I slept with a patient.’ She saw Cian nodding at her, grinning; he gave her the thumbs up. ‘Actually, I slept with more than one,’ she said, causing Cliff and Cheryl to prick up their ears. ‘… and also some doctors …’ Will stroked his chin and looked at her legs, ‘… and some nurses …’ Rose raised an eyebrow, ‘… and once a video of me ended up on the internet,’ Larry sat bolt upright, ‘… and then I was found tied to a hospital gurney with some straps, stark naked.’ This last brought interest from Abigail. ‘… and I had to leave the hospital in disgrace.’ She went on. ‘My brother paid for me to come here: he’s trying to stop me dragging the family name through the mud.’ By the time Shelley had finished, all seven of her fellow addicts were gazing at her in various states of interest, from the openly lecherous (Larry) to the disbelieving (Abigail). ‘That’s it,’ Shelley said weakly, and sat down. ‘Thanks Shelley,’ Verity said. ‘Who’d like to go next?’ ‘I will,’ said Rose, She had long blonde ponytail, and she had a strong cockney accent, like someone hamming it up on EastEnders. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a top that showed off her considerable cleavage. She didn’t stand, but leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees, as if she’d been preparing this for sometime and wanted to get it just right. ‘I was a porn star,’ Rose said. ‘Some of you might know me – I went by the name Rose Saintly.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Cian said. Larry, sitting next to him, nodded as well. Rose winked at them and continued. ‘All that’s behind me now, at least the film work. I’m too old. Problem is, I developed certain … habits, or shall we say tastes, while I was in the business. And I’ve been indulging them a bit too much in the last few years. I need to break out and have a proper relationship, while there’s still time.’ She sat, and Shelley wondered if she was talking about wanting to have children. She wasn’t sure if the new magazine would be interested in that side of the story, or whether they just wanted the sex stuff. She determined to try and find out anyway. Next was Abigail. Tall, raven-haired and exquisitely beautiful in a cold way, she’d been watching Shelley with an appraising eye since she’d entered the room. Abigail wore a miniscule skirt and thigh-high boots. She’d stood and announced clearly and confidently, ‘My name is Abigail, I’m a sex addict. I’m thirty-four and have been a dominatrix for the past four years, full-time; before that I just dabbled. I love inflicting pain, and have got to the point where I can’t enjoy a normal sex life. I need help.’ She sat, and resumed staring at Shelley. Next to speak was Will. He wasn’t bad-looking though wore an expression that said he knew it. He introduced himself in a Northern accent as Will Trewin, a merchant banker. This caused giggles between Cian and Larry, who seemed to have become firm friends already. Shelley wished she were sitting next to them. Will glared at them and went on. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m a serial adulterer. I love my wife, Mand, and our little lad. But I just can’t help myself. I’ve sworn off the affairs so many times, and Mand’s forgiven me nearly as many. But she’s finally put her foot down. If I can’t mend me ways, she’s off. So here I am.’ After Will, Cliff and Cheryl stood together. Verity explained: ‘Cliff and Cheryl are here together, as a couple. This is not unusual. We often have couples here at the clinic hoping to improve their sex lives. But it is unusual to have a couple in an addiction programme, please make them feel welcome.’ She waved at them to begin. ‘We are most definitely sex addicts,’ Cliff laughed. ‘We’re swingers and like to take part in threesomes, foursomes and more-somes regularly. Now that would be okay, as we both feel the same way about it …’ Cheryl nodded. They were a good-looking couple, Shelley couldn’t help but notice. Cheryl was slim, with boyish hips and short, sandy hair. Cliff was average height, with wide-set eyes and the sort of familiar, even face that made him look an actor you spend the whole movie trying to remember what you’ve seen them in before. Most of the swingers Shelley had read about looked like they’d fallen out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, been stung by bees and landed on their faces. Cliff went on. ‘But the problem is we want our own sex life to be just as good, like it used to be. And we’re increasingly finding we’re just not interested unless there are other people involved.’ ‘We want our own sex life back,’ Cheryl finished. They smiled at each other and sat down. Next was Cian. ‘Wotcher,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Right, I’m Cian O’Connor, lead singer of The Cossacks.’ That’s where I’ve seen him before, Shelley thought to herself. ‘I’m here because I can’t stop knobbing endless lines of women. It’s not that I don’t like it, but I think I’ve had enough really and need to settle down. My career’s suffering and me old man’s not too happy with the direction my life’s taking. Tada!’ he finished with a flourish and sat down. God, he was good looking. Briony would say he was the sort of man you wanted to bite bits off of. Last to speak was the Larry, the young Asian man sitting to Cian’s right, and Verity’s left. He introduced himself as Larry Bala. ‘I’m a Singaporean sex addict,’ he proclaimed, with a shy grin. He had lovely jet-black hair and perfect skin. ‘Or at least I’m a wank addict cos I just can’t stop masturbating. I spend up to twelve hours a day on the internet, looking at porn and quite frankly, ladies and gentlemen, the stuff I’m looking at is just getting weirder and weirder. Plus there have been some, er, incidents in public. I need to turn my hand to something else, my father said. So here I am.’ Now Shelley realised why everyone had taken an interest in her story. There was apparently something there for everyone. Well that was okay, she could use that to her advantage, get them to open up more outside the formal sessions. ‘Thank you everyone,’ Verity said, shuffling her papers. ‘Now, if you’d all like to help yourselves to a cup of tea or coffee, and use the facilities. Then we need to press on with the full confessionals. Shelley has already said she wants to go last. But would anyone like to volunteer to go first?’ ‘Yes,’ said Rose without hesitation. Shelley turned to look at her. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to tell this story for ages now, and it’s all ready to fall out my head if I wait any longer.’ ‘Fine, let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes, and we’ll hear what Rose has to say. I know you’ve all been fully briefed on the content of the course, but let me just reiterate that you are all expected to give a warts-and-all account, what we call a ‘confessional’ of the events that led to you coming here. If you can’t open up to us and tell us the truth, then you can’t open up to what you are for yourself.’ Shelley winced at the appalling sentence structure. It sounded like so much cod psychology to her. But she nodded along with the rest, her mind wandering and thinking of the BlackBerry in her jacket. She wanted to hide it in her bag, but was worried Sandra would search it, looking for pornography or sex toys. Any kind of recording device or means of communication with the outside world was forbidden. Rewriting the story later would be long-winded on the BlackBerry’s tiny keyboard, but unless Rose turned out to be the Catherine Cookson of the porn industry, her story would need editing anyway. Aidan had asked Shelley to do her best to relate each story in the style and vernacular of the person telling it. In the old days reporters used to phone their copy through to sub-editors back in the office. Shelley was actually quite glad she didn’t have her own mobile, and not just because she didn’t have to read any more embarrassing texts from Gavin. Briony had a tendency to download intensely irritating ring tones and set them up to go off at top volume on Shelley’s phone, which she’d then hide at the bottom of Shelley’s bag. Last week she’d had to endure a mortifying forty-five seconds on the tube rummaging through her bag, flipping tampons everywhere while looking for the damn thing as it played ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’, by the Dead Kennedys. ‘So Rose, we want everything!’ Verity was saying to the voluptuous blonde. ‘Don’t worry,’ Rose replied, smiling. ‘You’re gonna get it.’ Chapter Five (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) ‘God I love Hobnobs,’ Cian said, ‘Hey Verity, are we allowed to fuck biscuits?’ She stared back at him in astonishment. ‘What?’ she said. ‘Well I know we’re not allowed to shag each other,’ and he waved a hand at Cheryl, who giggled. ‘So maybe we could transfer our passions onto non-threatening, inanimate objects like biscuits. I quite fancy knobbing my way through a packet of Jaffa Cakes.’ Will shook his head and snorted. Abigail looked a bit green and put her biscuit back on the plate, from where Larry snatched it up. ‘And the best thing is you can eat them afterwards, saves the cost of putting ’em in a cab and sending them back to Mummy.’ ‘I don’t think that kind of talk is really appropriate,’ Verity said as they took their seats again. ‘Now everyone quiet down please. Show Rose some courtesy. Rose?’ Rose stood, and Shelley smiled at her as their eyes met briefly. Rose cleared her throat and began to speak. * * * Home was Whitechapel and I left it when my mum told me I couldn’t be a model. She was right, though it took me a long time to admit it. My tits and arse were too big to fit into those tiny frocks, but I was sixteen and knew nothing. I’d met this bloke you see, a photographer who told me my cheekbones were just right for that season, and that he wanted me to sign up with him. He asked for ?150 for photos and I emptied my savings account. He gave me a place to stay too, with some other girls, mostly from Eastern Europe. I thought I had it made right then, but someone took those rose-tinted glasses off me after a few days and chucked ’em in the canal. First of all nothing happened. I just stayed in the flat with the other girls. Horrible dingy place it was. Out near Ilford and you can’t hear the Bow Bells from there. I had next to no money, and survived on nothing much more than brown rice and water. That was all the other girls ate as well. It was okay with me, I knew I needed to lose a bit of weight. The flat was owned by an agency the photographer was connected with. It didn’t cost anything till you started earning, then they took it all back. The photographer brought this clothing designer around one day after a few weeks, said he was looking for new faces for a show. Me and a few other girls were herded into a van and taken to a freezing cold warehouse somewhere near Canning Town in the East End and we were asked to strip down to our knickers. I wasn’t so keen but the other girls did it straight away like they were used to it. I took off my bra and it hit me then that I didn’t fit in. The other girls hardly had a tit between them; I saw a row of tiny nipples poking out in the cold air, and then looked down at my melons. Pretty fine they were, no implants then but firm enough to fool a blind greengrocer. The designer was staring at them and said something to the photographer who looked over me, said something back and they both laughed. I felt pretty cheap. But later, the designer called me into another room and asked me to try on some clothes. He came up behind me as I was getting myself into this tiny little frock. Horrible thing it was, all colours of the rainbow, like something Joseph’s slutty sister might have worn. God knows what he was thinking when he came up with that idea. Anyway, he ‘helped’ me into it, acting all businesslike of course, but his hands went everywhere. I didn’t know what was normal, so accepted it. But then I found his hand up my skirt. ‘Oy!’ I said, ‘No pot of gold up there, mate.’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said in this toff voice. ‘I need to see what it looks like without the panty line,’ and then he whipped me keks off! I was too surprised to say anything. He stood behind me again and felt my tits, making out that he was just positioning them for best effect. I figured something was wrong, but I still had this stupid idea I’d be a top model. Now let me say right now that he wasn’t bad looking. I don’t want to pretend he was some big, fat creep with a face like a bulldog. And if he’d just asked, then I might just have said yes. I’d been stuck in a grotty flat with a bunch of Polish tarts for three weeks at that point, and would have appreciated some attention from someone who spoke English. What I didn’t like was the liberties he thought he could take. Still that’s the business isn’t it? Models are just tarts without the cream at the end of the day. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said. Finally someone being nice to me. I felt a bit better after him about that, especially when he told me he’d probably have some work for me. He poured me a glass of wine and asked me to sit down. ‘Now you’re young,’ he said, ‘and you may not know how things work in this industry, but there are certain perks of the job for designers like me.’ I looked at him, standing in front of me. I was starting to guess what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to serve it up on a plate, was I? ‘I mean for designers who are hetero. You know, straight?’ He sipped his wine and winked at me. ‘There aren’t many of us, and we get to choose from a large pool of pretty young girls.’ He reached out and stroked my chin. ‘You see, I could choose anyone for this job I have in mind, someone with a less feminine figure, for example, it would make things easier for the dressmakers.’ He shrugged, like he didn’t care, but I knew he was acting. ‘But on the other hand, maybe someone with your more, er, ample charms is what the fashion world is looking for. Do I take the risk? And get my reward? Or do I play it safe?’ I’d got it by then. ‘You’ll be expecting this reward from me, then?’ I said. ‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking my hair. He moved closer to me, took my hand and moved it to his fly. He wanted me to do the deed, to put the responsibility on me. I made a decision then. That I’d do what I needed to do to make it. I didn’t want to piss about with the scrawny Poles for the next year. I took hold of his fly and pulled it down. His cock was already trying to burst out. He wasn’t wearing pants, he’d planned it all. I’d seen penises before of course, round my way the lads aren’t shy about whopping it out in the hope you’ll grab hold of it. But I was still a virgin. I’d never even had one of them in my mouth. It sort of made its own way out of his fly, rising up and pointing straight towards me, like it was saying hello. He moved even closer and I could smell him, a musky scent. As I watched, a tiny drop of fluid appeared at the tip. ‘You look like you’ve been starving yourself,’ he said. ‘How about a bit of sausage?’ I rolled my eyes, opened my mouth and gingerly moved my head forward. He sighed as my lips made contact with his cock. I had no idea how you were supposed to do this sort of thing, but how hard could it be, I thought. You just take as much in as you can and try to chew without using your teeth. He seemed to like it anyway. He wasn’t really that big, but it felt enormous in my mouth. I remember thinking it tasted a bit salty, or not salty, but … well, most of you know what it tastes like. Thing was, I didn’t mind the taste. And I liked being able to make him react, you know? It was like I had some power in this exchange too. Though he was trying to dominate me, I wasn’t completely under his control. I pulled my head back, letting the slippery head come out and he tried to stick it back in, but I held him back, then slowly licked the end. Little feathery dabs with my tongue. This drove him wild and I liked that even more. Eventually he couldn’t stand it any more. He stood back, took off his trousers and grabbed a condom from the nearby table. I watched him, nervous, but also ready for what was going to come. Now I reckon I was quite lucky to get the guy I did. Plenty of girls have it much worse on their first time. Sure he was pushing me into something I hadn’t asked for, but he had given me a choice; it wasn’t like he was raping me or anything. I could have walked out anytime I liked. Also, I was lucky he used a condom, and lube. God alone knows the places his old feller had been. Further afield than Canning Town anyway. He came back, knelt down before me and kissed me. He pushed me back a little and I had to lift my leg so as not to overbalance, then I felt his hand slip between my thighs. He was good this guy. I only hope he’d dry-cleaned the couch recently because I reckon it got a lot of use. I remember the feeling as his hand touched my pussy lips. It felt wrong, sort of invasive, but at the same time it felt so good, it was what I wanted. I opened my legs a little more as he bore down on top of me and I gave up the fight and lay flat on the couch. I felt his lubedup fingers sliding across my labia and then one of them popped briefly inside me. I would have squealed but his tongue was down my throat. His breath smelt fresh and I felt my body relaxing as his mouth moved against mine and his fingers explored inside my vagina. Then, almost before I knew it, he was on top of me sliding my tight skirt up my thighs and exposing my bare arse to the elements. He lifted my legs up and over, so my ankles were around my ears and he positioned himself over me, I could feel his big purple head throbbing and tickling my open fanny lips. ‘How old did you say you were?’ he asked softly, gazing into my eyes. ‘Sixteen,’ I replied quietly. He smiled and nodded. Then he thrust himself inside me. We both closed our eyes and groaned. He with pleasure, I with pain. Jesus, it hurt. I’ve had some huge things jammed in there since which hurt more, but I was ready for those, I knew what I was getting. This took me completely by surprise and knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit. I wish I could say it stopped hurting after a while, but it didn’t. He took some time to finish off and each thrust hurt, despite the lube. Could have been worse, I suppose, but could have been a hell of a lot better too. Afterwards he gave me the details of the job. It was a shoot for a no-name lingerie catalogue. Not quite what I was expecting, but I was hopeful it would lead to better things, and better sex. I got quite a bit of work from that designer, and he put me in touch with a different, more up-market agency he used who put me on their books. They also fixed me up with a better place to stay. It was a big house with half a dozen models in it, a couple of ’em were top shelf or second shelf at least. They were snooty bitches and didn’t talk to the likes of me. I got loads of lingerie work, they like big tits you see. Also some magazine work for fuller-figured girls and a few ads including one on the telly. So all in all I think I got the better end of the deal with that designer. Problem was he’d turn up from time to time expecting sex. We weren’t supposed to have men at the house, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Eventually one of the other girls blabbed about it and I got thrown out. I wasn’t sure what to do, I didn’t have much savings and without the agency the work was drying up. But then Bob came along and saved me. I’d met him before; he was a photographer on one of the lingerie catalogues. I told him about my misfortune. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you some jobs. Lovely girl like you should never be out of work.’ I liked Bob. He took me for a drink and was a perfect gent. Nice-looking too, which helped, though he had a bit of a beer gut. He told me to meet him at a place in North London. When I got there I realised at once this was a different sort of modelling. In the studio was a king-size bed, and next to it was a clothes rail stuffed with a bewildering variety of lingerie. Crotchless panties, see-through negligees and what-not. ‘You’re shooting porn?’ I asked him, more surprised than shocked. ‘It’s glamour modelling,’ he insisted. ‘I’m not asking you to fuck anyone. Not yet anyway.’ So apparently that’s the line of distinction, ladies and gents. If you just take your knickers off, then you’re a glamour model. Stick something up you and you’re a porn star. Anyway. I’d already made my decision, weeks before in the studio with the designer. I modelled the crotchless panties, a leather bra that chafed something wicked, the see-through camisole, the frilly knickers, everything. Then we did some shots with me starkers. ‘How do you feel about touching yourself?’ he asked. ‘How do you feel about doubling the money?’ I replied. We negotiated a bit, but it soon became apparent that the more I did, the higher the price went. It was all the same to me. I’d stepped over the line and was determined to make sure I got my money. So there I was. Lying on a bed at some anonymous address in North London. Legs spread wide while I rubbed my clit and tried to look sultry for the camera. Fact is I was getting worked up, and Bob could see this. He took a couple more snaps, and then he put the camera down and just stared at me for a while as I continued to work my clit. I could see the bulge in his trousers and wondered what he might be like naked. I stared back for a good thirty seconds, thinking it over, then said, ‘Come on then.’ He didn’t need to be asked twice, and had his trousers and pants off before he hit the bed. He kissed me and I rolled him over until I was on top of him. I was determined this time to do it my way. I wanted to be in control, you see. I reached down between my thighs as I kissed him and took hold of his cock. He was a bit bigger than the designer, but as I was wet and ready, I figured he’d go in easy enough, and I was right. As I slid down over his pole I moaned without meaning to. He seemed to like it too and thrust his hips up at me. But I told him to lie still while I did the work. The designer hadn’t just got me my start in fashion; he’d shown me a few other things too. I got me arms around his back and lifted him up, leaning back at the same time so we were both half sitting, with my legs crooked over his thighs. In that position we rocked back and forth, slowly, while I kissed him, the four or so inches at the end of his cock sliding gently in and out of me. He seemed to like that and I could feel him getting even bigger. Then he held me close to him, sat stock still and shuddered as he came. His orgasm lasted a long time and I don’t think he’d had anything quite like that before. The look I saw on his face after was gratitude, not satisfaction. I think from that moment on he’d decided he’d do anything for me. I’m sure Bob did well out of that little photo session, I saw those pictures floating around for years afterwards, and they weren’t bad. I moved in with him that night. I had nowhere else to go and he seemed nice enough. Truth is, he wasn’t a bad bloke. He was just in a bad business. A couple of days after he moved in, he told me he had some more work for me, if I was interested. This time though we were talking films rather than pictures. Was I interested? I shrugged, what difference did it make to me? He took me to another warehouse, this time in West London. Inside there was a film studio. I didn’t think much of the set, just a few shabby old sofas in a fake living room. The lights were too bright and there were too many people about. I started to have second thoughts, especially when Bob introduced me to the bloke I was supposed to be in the scene with. He was dodgy-looking. He wore a manky old dressing gown and he hardly acknowledged me. ‘This is Trevor “The Truncheon” Collins,’ Bob said. ‘He’s been in this business a long time and he’s a total professional.’ I must have looked nervous, because Bob said, ‘Hey, don’t worry love; I’ll make sure you’re okay. And think of the money. Look, have some of this if you like.’ He offered me some pills. ‘They’re happy pills,’ he said. ‘It’ll get you in the mood.’ This is in the days before ecstasy, or even Viagra. God knows what he was giving me. I thought about it for a second, and then decided no. I needed to be in control. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it knowing exactly where I was, who I was and why I was doing it. I shook my head. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you; you only got this job because another girl pulled out. She had an overdose so won’t be back anytime soon. The money’s bloody good. These sorts of jobs don’t come up too often. You turn this down and it’s back to the crappy lingerie stuff.’ I knew he was right, back in those days there was no internet. It was all about VHS and there was good money to be made in the right niche, but there were a lot of hungry girls out there ready to do pretty much anything. I couldn’t afford to be squeamish. I stripped off and got into the skimpy dress they wanted me to wear. It didn’t fit at all well, but that was okay I suppose, my boobs were so far out my top it looked like I had two bald men in there head-butting each other, which I suppose is about right for this kind of film. Anyway, there wasn’t much of a script. I was supposed to be this horny housewife playing with herself when suddenly, by massive coincidence, the doorbell rings and there’s a bloke to fix the washing machine, or tune the piano or something, I don’t remember exactly. In fact, the only thing I do remember about that film was the size of Trevor’s truncheon. It was more like an axe handle really, in length and shape. I was a bit scared when I first saw it, and the director loved the look on my face. I wished I’d had the pills then. The Truncheon had certainly had his. I’d been well lubed though and he was pretty good with it. When they say size doesn’t matter, it’s what you do with it, that’s true only to a certain extent. Size helps a lot, and if you’ve got a big dick and you know what to do with it, well, most girls wouldn’t say no to that. He was a professional, and he certainly tuned my piano, I can tell you. I didn’t have to act. I forgot about the lights, I forgot about the crew, I forgot about Bob. I just closed my eyes and felt that huge cock pounding into me from behind and I knew I’d found what I wanted to do. That was the first orgasm I’d had from a bloke. On screen. There were to be many more over the years. It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed the sex I’d had with Bob, or even the designer for that matter. It was mostly okay. But it wasn’t until that day on that mouldy old sofa in an echoing warehouse in Acton that I understood how good sex could be. And how much I wanted more. Chapter Six (#uf9a7df0d-81af-5eda-b35f-356c87af6fd2) After the day’s shoot, the director invited everyone back to his pad for a party. The film was finished apparently, and the entire cast came along, there were a dozen or so girls and three guys, but the numbers were evened up by the crew, who were mostly men apart from the makeup girl, who didn’t seem entirely happy with the whole situation, but she came along anyway. I liked the look of her; she seemed down-to-earth and not far off my age. The director’s pad was huge. A giant loft-style apartment in Shadwell, it was, overlooking the river. There were drinks, and cocaine for those that wanted it, but I stayed away. Bob got stuck in to the Charlie though, as did most of the girls and the crew. It was just me and the make-up girl who stayed straight. I’d done my own for my scene, so we hadn’t properly met. I smiled at her and she came over to chat, introducing herself as Maya. She was attractive, petite and olive-skinned. ‘How’d you get mixed up in this?’ I asked. ‘He’s my brother,’ she said, indicating the director. ‘I got into a little trouble and needed a straight job, or at least, as straight as you can get in this business. He helped me out. I don’t know much about anything but I do know how to put on make-up.’ I saw her eyeing the cocaine being hoovered up by a gaggle of actors off the glass coffee table. She had a wistful look in her eye. I didn’t need to ask what sort of trouble she’d been in. It was pretty rowdy by that point, and the heat was stifling. ‘Shall we get some fresh air?’ she suggested. I agreed and we went out on to the balcony. I sipped my wine and gazed out over the twinkling lights of south London, ended beneath by a sweep of the inky Thames. ‘You seem different to the others,’ Maya said. ‘A bit more … straight?’ ‘Really?’ I laughed, looking at her in surprise. ‘I’m anything but straight.’ ‘Good,’ she said, and then she leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. I was too surprised to push her away, but I didn’t kiss her back. She pulled away, a questioning look in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I think I must have given you the wrong idea. When I said I wasn’t straight …’ ‘But you’re a porn actor,’ she said, ‘You’ve done girls haven’t you?’ I hesitated for just a second, and then nodded my head. ‘Sure,’ I lied, ‘Sure I have.’ Then she kissed me again, and this time I kissed back. What I started off thinking, as the kiss began, was that keeping the director’s sister happy was a good move for my career. What I ended up thinking, as she slid her slippery little tongue into my mouth and licked my teeth, was that I wanted to fuck this girl. I had a rough idea what you did with other women, but absolutely no experience. Luckily she took control. She turned me around so I was standing at the rail. She dropped to her knees behind me and I felt her delicate hands slide up my thighs, under my skirt and take firm hold of my panties, I parted my legs slightly and she slid them down in one smooth movement. Then she hefted my skirt up so my backside was exposed to the cool September air and after a pause, during which she ran her hands gently over the smooth globes of my behind, I felt her lips kiss me at the spot where my spine slips down between my cheeks. She was so gentle, and her face so soft against my skin. She worked her way down, licking each cheek in turn, and then forced my legs still wider. She paused again for a moment. I stood there, arching my back, and gazing out over London. Then it happened. I felt her mouth against my pussy and my knees buckled with the sweet ecstasy of the sensation. I felt her jaw moving against my mound and her tongue slipping out and flicking against my clit. She knew exactly what she was doing. Suddenly a flash of light over the rail distracted me: it was reflected London light off the wine glass I’d been holding. I’d lost control of the muscles in my hand and let it slip. I watched it tumble down away from me, in slow motion, as I was tongued from behind. I came when it hit the ground, both the glass and I shattering into a million pieces simultaneously. Then we heard cheers from inside and we turned to see the others had drawn the blinds before the glass doors to the balcony and were standing there watching us, whooping and hollering. I smiled despite my embarrassment – I didn’t mind being watched – but Maya hissed in disappointment. After that we went in and the party really started. It just seemed that all of a sudden everyone was naked, or next to, and getting it on with everyone else. Looking around I could see Bob and another guy roasting a bird like it was Christmas come early. The director was being worked on by three girls, hands, mouths, pussies, everything they could think of to get into his next film. I found myself on a couch between Maya and the lighting guy, who wasn’t much to look at, tell you the truth, but what the hell? He certainly knew how to handle a boom. He slid me on top of him, so I was facing away and he slipped his cock inside me. I was still horny as hell and, while I’d enjoyed the girl action I’d had from Maya, a good, firm cock helped a bit too. Maya rubbed my clit as I rode him. Never did learn his name. I remember his big, strong hands reaching around and holding my tits as he grunted and thrust himself into me. I liked that. I guess he’d had a bit of Charlie cos he kept it up a long time. I came again. Then hopped off while Maya had a go. She was watching me the whole time. I dropped to my knees in front of them and leant forward to get closer to the action. I watched him pump that cock into her tight little fanny for a bit while I got myself worked up again, then I lowered my face and started lapping at her clit as she rode. She pushed herself forward into my face, groaning, still grinding his slippery cock. Then I felt someone behind me getting into position and before I knew it I had another cock inside me. I didn’t bother turning around. Maya and the lighting guy came at the same time and I settled back onto the mystery man’s pole behind me. I came for a third time as he fucked me from behind. When I turned around I saw it was the director, he’d been doing me doggy style while I licked his sister’s pussy. Now that’s a bit weird. But whatever floats your boat. I’d already stopped being surprised by this point. It was anything goes as far as I was concerned. Anyway it did the trick, because I got plenty of work out of him over the next couple of years. He went to jail eventually, after they found some of the girls he’d been using were underage. In hindsight, I suppose my success in porn wasn’t that surprising, when I look back at pictures of myself from that time. I looked pretty good, slim, but not too thin, big tits, nice and firm even before the boob job in ’92. I was willing to do anything. My first anal scene opened my eyes and more besides that, but it wasn’t long before I was doing double penetration. Remember I was still a teenager and everyone wants a good-looking blonde eighteen-year-old willing to do DP and girl-on-girl on the same day. The thing was I loved it. I was enjoying the sex. Most of the other girls said they liked it, but when they got drunk they’d tell you what they really thought. Some of them hated it, some were in it for the drugs, some for the money, some cos they’d got mixed up with the wrong man. They mostly hated the actual sex, especially the rough stuff. Some preferred doing other girls, but a lot of them were squeamish about that. So I was kind of the exception. I loved what I did and I wanted more of it. I soon lost interest in Bob; the only time we’d have sex was when he brought other people back to the flat. Once I had enough money I moved out and got myself my own pad. I didn’t bother giving Bob the address. I didn’t feel bad about it. He’d used me, after all, and ultimately I’d used him to get where I needed to be. I had a fantastic big flat in Chelsea, a burgeoning career and sex with beautiful people whenever I wanted it. I’d stayed off the drugs and didn’t smoke and apart from the odd glass of wine didn’t drink either. I was self-contained and in control. I got myself an agent and started to make some real money. I was in demand. The reason I was able to ask for such big money was that I never bothered with a cunt double like some girls did. Everyone gets sore after a while, sometimes the big names would ask for another girl to do some of the close-up work, particularly when the guy was big, or there were massive dildos involved. I did it all myself, which gave the director the freedom to pan up and show my face as I was pounded from behind. Also, I think it was always clear that I was genuinely into it on screen. I rarely had to fake an orgasm. I started to accept more hard-core stuff, including an S&M flick. They dressed me up in leather and I had to whip some bloke, and then walk all over him. They made me stand on his balls which seemed a bit odd, but the guy seemed to like it. That was a rough set. In one scene two girls held me down while some guy pretended to anally rape me. I was lubed up so it wasn’t too bad. For once I had to act, but in this case like I didn’t enjoy it. The handcuff stuff was great. But it was always better when I was the one calling the shots. I guess it’s this control thing again. Around this time I started to get a little voice in my head telling me something was wrong. Quiet at first, and I couldn’t make out what it was saying to me. Just that my life wasn’t as perfect as I was telling myself. I was offered a lead role in Tiberius. You might remember it, it was the biggest-budget porn film ever made, still is, I think. This was the time when internet porn was just starting to damage the movie business, and this was the industry’s response. I was Marissa the Slave Girl, cruelly abused by her master, then rescued by a courtier and taken to live in Tiberius’ palace in Rome. The orgy scenes were incredible. One of them took three days to film. We stayed on set pretty much the whole time, the food they brought in was real and we were drunk most of the time. Most of the sex was undirected. My character is brought into the ballroom as the orgy is underway. I was inspected by the Emperor and his wife Vipsania, who decide to break me in on a low dais in the centre of the room as everyone watches. Tiberius was played by Johnny Brooks, possibly the best-looking male porn actor there has ever been, with a massive 10-inch sword spoiling the line of his toga, so I was happy about that. Vipsania was played by Jessie Pink, legendary in the business. She was nearly forty by then but still had a fantastic body and a wrinkle-free, beautiful face. I was wearing a short tunic, with no knickers underneath. Firstly I lay down on the dais and a male slave came over with a bowl of hot water, soap and a razor. He was actually one of the make-up guys and he was totally uninterested in my snatch other than in a professional way, if you get my meaning. Most of the make-up guys travelled the wrong way up the Bakerloo line. I was glad about that because it meant his hand was steady. He gently rubbed foamy soap between my legs and shaved me quickly and expertly. I’m glad he knew what he was doing because that razor was damn sharp. As I lay there I was kicking myself for not getting my clit insured for a million pounds. It was a weird feeling, and I was surprised to find the heat from that sharp blade got me wet. Maybe it was the danger of it, or the novelty. I’d never been shaved before. Then they told me to sit up on my knees. Jessie lay naked on the dais and I shuffled forward till I was knelt over her face. I lowered my head until we were in a 69 position. I dove in and started eating her out while she jabbed her hot little tongue into my pussy. I could feel my juices dribbling out over her face as she slid her mouth across my smooth, shaven mound. Then Johnny got into the action. He came around and presented his cock to my face. I left off licking Jessie’s snatch and took him into my mouth. I could only fit half of it in and his girth was such that it was all I could do to avoid choking as he slid himself in and out of my mouth. I focused on his bronzed six-pack twitching before my eyes. Jessie was all the while working on my pussy, but I wasn’t ready to come. Johnny pulled out and went around to the other end. I returned my attentions to Jessie’s dripping snatch as I felt her fingers opening me gently so that Johnny could slide in between my wet pussy lips. I felt myself being stretched as he thrust himself deep inside. Ten inches is a lot to take, even for a girl like me. As he fucked me, Johnny held my hips better to force my haunches back against his pelvis. Jessie reached around and fingered my ass. I was dimly aware of the other actors watching intently, and beyond them the cameras and lights, but mostly I was thinking about the massive penis pumping slowly into me, the nimble, mischievous finger in my anus and the hot, wet mouth working against my labia. I exploded in an orgasm as bright as a supernova. I honestly felt I was going to die, it was so good. I swear my life flashed before my eyes. Johnny never stopped his rhythmic, steady fucking and Jessie never let up with her finger and tongue. Eventually I had to pull away and I collapsed on the dais, sobbing with relief and emotional release. The director loved it; it seemed the little slave girl was finally satisfied. But when the shooting stopped for the day and the cameras were shut off, most of us stayed on; enough eating, drinking and fucking to make the Romans themselves blush pinker than a tart’s fanny. I had sex with dozens of people that night, working my way through the cast, then the crew. Everyone else was on coke, or ecstasy, or something. I got through on coffee and naked lust. I woke the next morning, stark naked, sleeping on top of two enormous spear carriers. Later that day one of the producers approached me and asked me if I was interested in something a bit different. I was out of my mind with exhaustion and I felt like someone had stuck a broom up inside me, brush end first. I shrugged, and told him to contact my agent. ‘It’s a farmyard scene,’ he said, when I called him the next week. ‘What, you mean I’m shagging some farmhand on a horse?’ I asked. ‘No, I mean you’d be shagging the horse.’ I burst out laughing. I’d thought I couldn’t be shocked by anything but I was wrong. ‘Actually I’m all right, thanks. I’m not that fussy about who I have sex with, but at this stage in my career, I think I’d prefer to stick with the human race.’ It was an eye opener though. What I was hearing was that people saw me as a girl who’d do anything. I decided that I was going to go for the high-class stuff from then on. My agent got me some auditions for some softer stuff, arty films, you know. Still real sex, but not so hard core. I was comfortably off by then and I could afford to do fewer and better films, just two or three a year. I wrote a couple of books, or at least I had a couple of books ghostwritten for me. They made a joke about me on the News Quiz, they said I was the only woman ever to have written more books than I’d read. I had a guest appearance on a soap opera, I even got on a couple of late-night talk shows and nearly made it into the mainstream, but then the tabloids started printing double page spreads of my early pictures and stills from some of the hard-core stuff I’d done. They’d known about my background all along of course, but they obviously decided to wait until I’d become reasonably well known before they splashed on the story. That was it for going mainstream. I ran away to LA for a while. The industry over there is much more professional, and if you’ve got your shit together, you can earn a lot. I quite liked it there, but everything just seemed fake, the tits, the tans, the teeth, even the sex. You could never be sure whether the director really thought you were hot in a scene, or whether he said the same thing to all the girls. You could never be sure if the guys were that into you, now Viagra was commonplace. ‘Oh yeah, that’s so good,’ they’d say in a monotone. ‘Yeah suck it, bitch,’ in a voice like they’d rather I did anything but. Some of the stuff was good. I did one film which was a take on David Cronenburg’s Crash, and the cast and I drove around in flash cars giving each other oral sex and shagging against the steering wheel. We didn’t actually get to do any crashing though; the budget didn’t stretch that far. We had to give the cars back at the end – just as well the seats were leather or else the dry-cleaning bill alone would have bust the budget. Mostly though, the films were uninspiring and mediocre. No proper story, just a series of gratuitous excuses for shagging. Not turning my nose up, you understand, a cheque’s a cheque and a cock’s a cock, whichever side of the Pond you’re on, but, y’know, I guess I’d known for a while I was missing something in my life. I didn’t understand what, but I figured I wasn’t going to find it in California. So a couple of years ago, once I’d earned a decent pension, I came back. I’d intended to retire, maybe meet a nice guy who didn’t watch porn and who didn’t know who I was, if there were any. Maybe even have a kid? I didn’t know. I dropped right out of the business, or at least I dropped out of the sex part. I needed to keep myself busy somehow, so my agent hired me as his assistant, it helped him to have someone who knew the business from the inside, so to speak. Problem was, I missed the sex too much. I’d never stopped enjoying that. The money wasn’t so important. I had control of my life, I had my comfortable house, I even had some friends. I’d always stayed in contact with Maya, and there was my agent and some others from the early days. But it wasn’t enough. I found it easy enough to find men at clubs, or on the net, but they were either dull as shit, or crap in bed, or both. I had a string of one-night stands and to be fair I never gave ’em a chance I suppose. I was like an alcoholic trying out different sorts of fruit juice. I missed Johnny Brooks, and Trevor the Truncheon. I’d send these young, hopeful girls out to shoots around the country, and all the while I’d be wishing it was me going off, not knowing quite who I was going to be working with, or what I’d be asked to do. It was that slight sense of wrongness that I missed. The sense of danger I loved. Like the feel of that hot razor against my pussy lips. So I talked to my agent and he shrugged and said I should go for it. I made a comeback. This time on the internet. I’d never done this kind of thing before but there’s good money in it. There’s this company that does interactive stuff. Where you and some bloke, or some girl, sit on a bed and wait for the punters to e-mail you what they want you to do. I found it pretty dull. Most of ’em didn’t have any imagination. ‘Do it to her doggy style’, or ‘suck her tits’. And there’d be long periods where nothing would happen so you’d just sit and look at each other trying not to laugh. I tried to get back into films but I wasn’t eighteen any more, and of course I’d lost my reputation as the girl who’d do anything. There were plenty of girls who would. I stumped up some money to produce the sort of things I wanted to do. Films with a story. We did a hospital thing, Erection Room, and a lawyer one called Bangingthe Gavel, but they never came to much. We lost money in the end. I kept it going longer than I should have, I didn’t have my mind on the numbers, just on the opportunities to have sex. My after-shoot parties were legendary, there’s footage of me on the internet at one of my own parties being penetrated by three men at once while drinking a glass of champagne. Think about it. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/amber-stephens/confessions-a-secret-diary/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.