J.D. Chase's Blog

The rushing in my ears sounds like an express train, but I barely notice it. I’m still transfixed by the blond figure tottering across the stage, from left to right and back again, illuminated by a blazing spotlight; swimming in my vision like the bright dots before a migraine. My brain is struggling to comprehend that this seemingly svelte-figured woman is actually the sex god who makes my lady parts tingle. I mean, I’m not into women – not at all … and if I were, I don’t think I’d be into blondes … although I’m slightly envious of those long, shiny locks that Sax is making so much of. He has head tossing and finger twirling perfected, managing to look confident (head toss) or coy (finger twirling) at will. You’d think that was his actual hair. That platinum shade makes his skin look lightly bronzed. And actually, the full fringe kind of suits his bone struc―

Whoa! Forget the hair. Forget the Trinny and Susannah critique. That’s Sax, up there, for fuck’s sake. You know, the man who makes your ovaries throb? The man who haunts your dreams in the guise of the perfect specimen of human manliness? I signed up to sex on a stick – not sex on a lipstick.

Jesus! How the hell can that be Sax? Because last time I looked, perfection of the male form did not include tarantula-like fake eyelashes and rip off Louboutins … even if he can walk perfectly in them! Oh come on Bella, get a fucking grip on yourself!

I think I do. Yes, I actually manage to get a grip on myself and force shut my mouth, which has been hanging open like a B-52’s bomb bay doors for god knows how long. Thankfully, no weapons have shot out of it because, I’m suddenly acutely aware of the group of people sitting around me, all watching me intently. My gaze slides across them and the tension ratchets up another notch. Talk about bated breath – they’re staring at me like the entire future of the known universe depends upon my next move. Sure, they want to know how I’m taking Sax’s revelation. But shit, I don’t even know myself yet.

In fact, the only thing I do know is that I really do need another drink. Stat.

I force my face into a grin that I’m sure the Cheshire Cat would be envious of, and then get to my feet. “My round,” I cry, to which approximately a thousand people sat at tables alongside ours respond with shushes and reprimanding glares. Okay, so it’s probably around a hundred people. And only about five of them shush me, but that’s not the point. They shush in that exaggerated fashion that’s more distracting than my original two-worded cry.

Anyway, I ignore them and begin to stride off to the bar. Oblivious to the fact that I don’t know what anyone would like to drink. Oblivious to the fact that Sax or Saxetta, or whatever he-stroke-she is called, has fallen silent and is watching me, providing a cue for every single person in the room to stare at me. And oblivious to the fact that I’ve drunk way too much and my legs are now made of rubber.

And someone turns the room upside down.

Okay, so actually, I go arse over tit but who’s splitting hairs.

At this point, I’d like to say that there was a collective gasp of horror … or at least genuine concern. I could have hit my head on the edge of a table on the way down and ended my suffering before it began. But no. No collective gasp. No easy way out.

Eddie Izzard would have been jealous of the wall of laughter that went up as I went down. I wonder what Freud would make of me thinking of a cross-dressing comedian while I’m struggling to breathe, having totally winded myself in my rush to get out from Sax’s gaze. Probably not much since the first person who comes to my aid is a man, wearing a dress.

Not Sax, you understand. No, this is another man wearing a dress who could really do with a shave, although he’s so dark haired (I’m judging him on his meticulously made up eyebrows, not his baby pink nylon hair). A man who introduces himself as Darcy as he offers his hand, before pulling me up, and barking at the onlookers to watch the entertainment they’ve paid for, not the free floorshow.  A man who, the moment I’m on my feet, puts his arm around me to take my weight and leads me behind the bar, calling out to one of the bar staff before pulling me through a door and into the corridor beyond.

I belatedly realise that I should be worried – a little anxious, at least. I’m disappearing off with a man I’ve just met. But there’s something about him. Some instinctive reassurance that he won’t hurt me, which is upheld by the fact that all he’s done in the few minutes of our meeting, is help me. He leads me to a small room – a dressing room of sorts – that’s immaculately tidy. Even the dressing table that’s loaded with beauty products is spotless, with items lined up neatly either side of the mirror.

He takes me over to a sofa that’s practically wedged across the back wall, and releases me once he’s lined me up so I slump, as gracefully as I can manage, onto the cool leather.

“So you’re Bella,” he says. It’s definitely a statement, not a question.

My sassy eyebrow raise makes him laugh, but then the door opens and a member of bar staff comes in a tray, on which are the most outrageous looking cocktails I’ve ever seen. It looks like somebody has run amok through Kew botanical gardens, snipping off samples of this and that so that a bar tender could throw a handful into the pale jade green liquid. Darcy takes them before blowing a kiss theatrically to what I can only assume is a long term suffering member of staff: one eye roll and they leave us to it.

Darcy sinks elegantly onto the cushion beside me, holding out one of those weird looking drinks. I shake my head and put my hands up defensively. The last thing I need is more alcohol.

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t drink anymore,” I say with a forced smile. Truth be told, I’m starting to feel a little under the weather. Either I’m too old for nights out, or the events of the day are starting to catch up with me.

He leans in, his perfectly stained, bubblegum pink lips, pursed together to convey seriousness. “Ducky, I didn’t think it would be wise for you to consume any more alcohol,” he says, conspiratorially. “These aren’t cocktails; they’re poptails. Completely alcohol free. I thought you looked like you could do with a freshener. I swear by them.” When he finishes, he’s smiling kindly.

“Oh, thank you,” I smile back as I take one from his still proffered hand. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Think nothing of it. In fact, I must confess something: this is perfect.”

I pause, just before my lips meet glass and regard him over the foliage. “Ah, you mean you don’t drink?”

His brow furrows so I continue. “The non-alcoholic drinks – you don’t drink regular cocktails?”

He grins mischievously. “Only something special would keep me from an opportunity of slurping a good cock … of any description.”

I convulsed. I think I laughed. Snorted even. But at the same time, I gasped at his audacious admission, resulting in a laugh/gasp/snort/cough/choke. Unfortunately for him, I’d just taken my first sip. Fortunately for him, it was a test sip – there was no way I was plunging into a green drink without caution. Besides, it was difficult to get the liquid to my mouth without poking myself in the eye with a stem of a yucca plant. A little poptail sprayed from my mouth right before droplets of the same trickled down my nostrils. Darcy shrieked, leaping back whilst managing to hold his glass upright and not spill a drop.

When I manage to stop coughing-slash-choking, he’s in front of the mirror, patting his face with a tissue. I don’t know what he’s worried about, he only got a fine spray, somewhat akin to a toning facial mist – me … well, let’s just say it’s not a vintage night where my eye makeup is concerned. Thank god Fez got me to bring my makeup; repair number two coming right up. I get to my feet, and it would appear that the whole cough-choke thing has done wonders in sobering me up … well, it’s made a start. I grab my bag with the intention of asking to share the mirror with him, once I’ve apologised for the facial mist episode.

“Darcy, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. How embarrassing. But when you said …” I tail off, unable to bring myself to repeat it.

His eyes catch mine in the mirror and he raises a brow and purses his lips. “Oh come on, Miss Bella. Don’t tell me you’re a prude. Knowing that Sexy Saxy wants to keep batting for the other side – well, as far as I’m concerned …” He pauses, giving a little snicker. “But there’s no way we’re losing him to a bloody prude.”

His words immediately have me trying to work out whether he’s being offensive. I mean, who likes being called a prude? Sadly, I’m still too under the influence of those damn cocktails to work it out on the fly. I step up to the dressing table and drop my bag on it, my eyes not leaving his for a second. “Let’s get something straight: I’m no prude. I’m just not used to people mentioning their penchant for fellatio within minutes of them meeting. And frankly, the only women I can think of who would be used to that are whores. Now if you don’t mind, that damn poptail has ruined my makeup, not yours, so budge over and let me do some damage limitation.”

I hold his eyes for a second longer than I need to, just to make sure he gets the message, but then, as I’m reaching for a tissue to wipe away the streaks of mascara and eyeliner that have been dragged down my cheeks during my eye watering coughing fit, he throws his head back and laughs.

Now I’m the one with raised eyebrows because, in the few minutes of our acquaintance, he’d acted more ladylike than me – hands down. Yet, right now, I’m hearing him guffaw like a truck driver. I don’t know why he’s laughing – I hadn’t meant to be funny, but it’s infectious and I can’t help joining in.

Eventually, he drops his tissue into the pedal bin next to the dressing table and says, “Oh crap, I gotta stop laughing; my makeup’s going to be worse than yours at this rate.” Each couple of words is punctuated with chuckles until he manages to get a handle on it. I’m still laughing into my tissue as I begin to wipe the watery streams of black from my cheeks.

I see him regarding me thoughtfully in the mirror. I pretend not to notice, busying myself with my attempt to clean up my face. “You know earlier when I said I had a confession?”

Dragging the memory from the back of my mind, I nod. “You said something was perfect.”

He smiles. “I did. What I meant was how having you to myself for a little while was perfect. I was wrong though. I’m sorry.”

Um … what now? He must decipher from my confused, not to mention wary expression that I have no idea what he’s going on about. For the second time, it sounds as though he could be insulting me. But since I’m still semi-pissed, I’m willing to give him chance to explain himself … and me time to repair my face.

“No,” he says, an expression of horror creeping into his face. “No, it is perfect. Fuck it. That didn’t come out right.” He sighs and shakes his pink-wigged head. “I’m so curious about you from all Sax has said, and when I saw you fall, I realised it was my perfect opportunity to swoop in and be your transvest-knight in shining Prada.” He stops and gives a little shimmy. I laugh and it occurs to me that, but for the fact that I’m in a gay club, I’d be considering whether I’d hit my head when I fell.

His smile fades leaving him with an expression of genuineness as he looks down at his hands. “I was going to grill you. I was hell bent on determining whether you were good enough to be in our Sax’s inner circle – I must confess I had my doubts. They literally did break the mould after he was made: body to die for, voice to kill for and a personality to match and I’ll be brutally honest with you, I’d snap him up in a heartbeat but he’s not interested. Believe me, I’ve tried, giving him every weapon of seduction in my not inconsiderable arsenal. I’m not used to receiving knockbacks, and he knocked me back into the middle of the nineties. One minute I’m trying to get in Sax’s pants and the next, I’m going Outside with George Michael.”

I can’t help giggling, although I have no idea why he’s telling me all this. I think Darcy realises because when he picks up from where he left off, his voice is softer and I can feel his affection for Sax. “He’s a solid gold good guy. He might not thank me for telling you this, and maybe I shouldn’t be, but we look after our own in this community …” He stops and looks through me as much as at me. “He’s had a tough time. He’ll tell you all the gory details if and when he’s ready – it would be unkind and unfair of me to rob him of that right. But this choice of his … and, if I’m honest, I don’t think it’s even a choice, it’s something he has to do, otherwise he wouldn’t be true to himself … well, let’s just say it’s cost him a lot personally, and caused him such heartache – if not heartbreak. I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to kick him while he’s down.”

I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that I have no intention of kicking Sax when he’s down, or at any other time. This guy’s obviously under the impression that I’m of greater importance in Sax’s life than I am. He’s my gay work colleague. Hopefully my friend. Friends don’t do that to one another. But Darcy holds up his hands firmly cutting me off before I can even start.

“Just hear me out,” he says firmly, before softening his voice once more. “He’s my friend and I care about him.”

How ironic. I almost try again to say what I wanted to say seconds ago but Darcy’s eyes are silently imploring me to shut up and listen. I nod, reach for a makeup wipe from the packet in front of me and set about cleaning up under my eyes.

“I didn’t agree with the way he insisted upon revealing his little secret to you. I’m a straight talker as you might have noticed, and I don’t have a problem telling people what I do … who I am. But then, I haven’t had Sax’s troubles … maybe I’d want to do things differently in his shoes. But, my point is that I didn’t think he was right to bring you here, leaving you sat front and centre when he did his big reveal. I didn’t think it was fair on you, to put you in that position. And I didn’t think it was good for him … it had the potential to backfire badly.”

He pauses, but I know he has more to say. I realise I’ve paused too, the wipe resting on my face but I became so absorbed in what he’s saying that I couldn’t concentrate on what I was doing. I was transfixed. Darcy kept dropping pieces of a jigsaw that I hadn’t known existed: Sax has had a tough time … heartache … troubles … I found myself wanting more pieces so that I could fit them together, complete the puzzle that is Sax, and see the bigger picture.

Darcy’s eyes soften and he reaches out, taking one of my hands in his. “I was watching you when he walked out on stage. I was at the side of the stage, peering out so I could see your face, although I was ready to spring into action if it went pear-shaped, I must admit that I was prepared to go to Sax’s aid, not yours.” He shrugs apologetically. “But when I saw how stunned you were, and how desperate he was, not even managing to continue with his performance, I wished I’d not given up. That I should have found a way to talk him out of this risky gamble. Everyone at your table was holding their breaths too … it was like you and Sax were dancing on a knife-edge. Fuck, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach just remembering how intense it was. His desperation, up on that stage, alone, laid bare and so fucking vulnerable … and your total and utter shock as you balanced on the edge of that blade. A blade which would have wounded him deeply, had you reacted badly.”

“I did react badly! I needed a drink and then managed to get the attention of everyone in the place before falling flat on my face,” I cry, trying to absorb what Darcy’s said about Sax’s desperation for me to accept him … all of him … another piece of the Sax jigsaw that’s just out of my grasp. I continue in a little voice as everything swirls around my head, making me feel more confused than ever. “If he was scared of me reacting badly, then why bring me here? Why tell me at all?”

Darcy smiles and gives my hand a squeeze. “I asked him the same question. He has a very small circle of straight friends. We gays love him, but you straight folk … you just don’t get it. You don’t get him … well, in the main, you don’t. I don’t mean you personally. He didn’t want to befriend you and let you get to know a shell of him, without really getting to know the real him. It was particularly risky, you being his co-worker, but this is the first time he’s had a co-worker outside of this place, so I guess he was out of his depth. After past events … past reactions … I guess he wanted to get it over with quickly and if you reacted badly, he would have to hope you respected his privacy in the office and kept his secret while being able to work alongside him, even if you couldn’t be friends.”

Out of nowhere, I feel a rush of compassion for Sax. He was so worried about how I’d take it that he wasn’t only gay, but a drag queen, possibly a cross-dresser outside of this club too, for all I know, that he wanted to get it over with before building a friendship with me. I can only imagine the reactions he’s had from other potential friends in the past to have made him so cautious. And I’ve gone and ran out on him while he’s performing … what must he be thinking?

“Don’t look so sad, especially with your face in that state!” he chuckles. “Come on, let’s find Bella the beautiful again.”

He indicates for me to sit before rifling through my makeup bag, making appreciative noises but I’m still too lose in my thoughts. I know I need to see Sax to explain, and apologise but I almost feel ashamed of myself and I can’t help but wonder what Sax thinks of me now. Have I unwittingly picked at an old wound? Will be forgive me?

As Darcy finishes removing the last traces of my coughing fit from my face, I feel a need to explain to him how I felt when Sax sprung his surprise on me. Somehow, Darcy’s opinion of me matters.

“I was just shocked. I didn’t expect that. If he’d prepared me, or even hinted … it’s quite a transformation from Sax the man to …” I realise I don’t know the name of his alter ego, but Darcy is quick to help me out.

“Ida … Ida Cock,” he deadpans, presumably not wanting to disrupt the seriousness of the conversation.

“Ida Cock … as in, hide a cock? Very clever,” I giggle.

He grins. “Or I’d a cock, as in I had a cock.”

I giggle again.

“So, have you had time to get over your shock?” he says. “I’m not pushing you, or demanding you tell me what happens next …”

He tails off, leaving me in no doubt that he is, in fact, pushing me and demanding to know my intentions. I shake my head, then playfully slap his leg. “You so are,” I tell him, wagging my finger. “I have a feeling that you’re often to be found in someone else’s business.” When he gasps theatrically, I add, “Meddling with the best of intentions, of course.”

His eyes twinkle. “Of course.”

I sigh. “To be honest with you, the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion.” Darcy looks mildly offended. “Not by you,” I add, hastily. “The way Sax arranged it, too much alcohol – on top of a heavy night drinking last night – an all-nighter, in fact and … well, I’m not used to this type of socialising. I’ve just got out of a long, straight-laced marriage; the only socialising I did was at dinner parties and gala dinners. I’m not used to being single. Or frequenting nightlife. Or …”

He cocks his head to one side. “Or gay bars? Or drag queens?”

I nod, grateful that he appears to understand. “I’ve never had a gay friend – for no other reason than I’ve never had a friend who happens to be gay, not because I’ve refused friendship with people who’re gay.”

He smiles kindly. “You don’t have to explain. I got that impression when you spat your drink in my face earlier.”

“What? That I’d never had a gay friend?”

He chuckles. “Actually, yes. You spend any time at all around the majority of us and you won’t be surprised when something like that’s said. But also, because of that, I figured that you’d led a fairly sheltered life. I mean, in this day and age, it’s practically de rigueur to have a gay pal. Living in Liverpool, you-”

“I don’t. I live in Chester.”

“Ah,” he says. “Although there is an active gay scene in Chester, unless you happen to frequent somewhere like the Liverpool Arms?” He pauses, both speaking, and in his application of foundation to my cheek. I shake my head in reply but I almost snicker out loud … Dick in a pub? God, no. Not for years. He’s way too self-important to drink in a pub. And way too homophobic to drink in a gay bar, I realise. Not for the first time, I wonder how my marriage lasted as long as it did.

“Penny for them?”

I realise I’m staring into the middle distance. I refocus on Darcy, who’s now reapplying my eyeshadow. “Ah, they’re not worth it. I was just thinking how I’ve simply existed for years, thanks to the confines of my marriage. I’ve not been living my life. Although this was quite an experience tonight, this is what I should be doing, taking myself away from the same old, same old, pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.”

“Wow,” Darcy says. “I feel like a social experiment.” But I know he’s teasing.

I grin. “Better that than a sociopath!”

He laughs as he sets about repairing my eyeliner. It’s so much easier when someone else does it … I’ve always done it myself. You know, perhaps gay friends have hidden benefits.

“So I take it I can relax where Sax’s little secret is concerned?” he asks, hopefully.

I smile back. “Yeah, what does it matter to me what Sax does in his own time?”

Darcy freezes for a split second, the tip of the eyeliner pressed to my eyelid, before carrying on with his makeup ministrations. I’m only looking through one eye but it looks to me like he’s frowning. Maybe he doesn’t believe me, after my performance earlier.

“Look, I mean it, if Sax wants to be my friend, what does it matter whether he’s gay, bi, straight, transgender or whether he’s a transvestite? I won’t base our friendship on his sexual orientation, besides I’ve met you and Fez tonight too – and you’re lovely. So my foray into gay friendships is off to a flying start.”

I don’t think I’m expecting much when I anticipate a smile, or some tiny token of appreciation, but he doesn’t look impressed. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that he looks unimpressed either … he just seems … oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t look convinced.

He carries on, patching up my eye makeup but he does it in silence. He feels distant, although he’s touching my skin. I feel as though I’ve said something wrong, but for the life of me, I don’t know what that might be. He says he was worried about how I’d take Sax’s little reveal – and I’ve told him I’m fine with it. That I’m not going to judge Sax on his choices, and that it won’t prevent us from being friends. How can accepting something, that’s frankly none of my concern, be wrong? I don’t get it.

Resisting the temptation to tell Darcy that I’m quite capable of reapplying my own lipstick, I force myself to be patient, telling myself I’ll be out of here in a couple of minutes. I could do with another cocktail. Yeah, as soon as he’s finished, I’m going back to the table. This is getting awkward.

I draw in a breath sharply when it occurs to me that Darcy’s behaviour changed when I said Sax’s sexual orientation and drag queen act wouldn’t stop me from being friends with him. He was fine with me when he thought I wasn’t. Yet he was visibly concerned about how Sax would react.

Yeah, but he was at the edge of the stage, ready to pick up the pieces if I’d blown Sax off.

I flick my eyes to Darcy’s face, and am surprised to see him staring at me intently, his head cocked to one side.

“You made me make a mess of your lips,” he says. “What made you gasp like that?”

I can’t help looking away, so I study my hands as I try to think of a convenient lie.

“Figured it out, have you?” he says, when I don’t answer. I freeze when I feel his thumb on my chin, wiping away the errant lipstick. My eyes fly back to his. What the hell am I supposed to say?

As it happens, I’m saved … or caught between two evils … or something, because the door opens and Sax cautiously steps inside. He looks apprehensive, but then his face falls when he sees me, sitting here stiffly, looking more apprehensive than him. Is it wrong that I’m thinking how much better he looks in a dress than Eddie Izzard?

I feel Darcy pressing the lipstick into my palm but I can’t look at him. I can’t tear my eyes away from Sax, who’s now staring at his feet. I know what I want to say but my mouth won’t form the words. Darcy walks over to him. “I think I’d better leave you two to it,” he says, opening the door.

He stops in front of Sax and I hear him whisper, “You’ve got some explaining to do.” And then he’s gone, leaving me wondering what Sax has to explain to him, and whether it has anything to do with me catching Darcy out.

As it happens, I’m wrong. Very wrong. In fact, I couldn’t be more wrong if I tried.

 

 

 

Christmas Day has passed by in the blink of my meticulously made-up eye. I’ve broken the news to my parents that Dick and I splitting isn’t the catastrophe it initially appeared to be, that I’m better off out of a marriage that was stifling in its one-way selfishness, and managed to convince my mother that it’s not worth staying in a marriage of convenience, no matter what my bank statements say. That, and the lack of sleep last night, resulted in me flopping on the sofa for a small nap. A napette, if you will. A napette that turned into a stonking six-hour sleep.

While I feel better for it – the hangover that hit while I was talking to my parents has gone – it’s meant that I’ve had just two hours to get ready …

Easy, you think. Yeah, it should be. But from Sax’s clues – especially that I’d be safe even if I was practically naked – it’s obvious that we’re going to a gay club. Now, while I’ve been off the single scene for some time, I’ve never been a part of the LGBT scene. Not that I have any prejudices or issues – I’m more open minded than most. I’ve never had any gay friends. And what I don’t have is the luxury of knowing what the hell to wear to a gay club on Christmas Day.

I didn’t even know you could go clubbing on Christmas Day, for heaven’s sake. Does it differ from clubbing on any other day, you know, outfitwise? Does the wardrobe of a straight woman going clubbing in a gay club differ from that of a straight clubber? And if so, is there a one style fits all code when it comes to gay clubs or do they vary? And, assuming that they do, do they differ further on Christmas Day?

Spending roughly a quarter of the time I had to get ready attempting to answer these questions – and coming up blank – meant I had less than ninety minutes. I showered in record time then spent a record time rifling through my wardrobe in an attempt to convince myself that somewhere I do have something that’s remotely appropriate. The problem with not knowing what is generally worn at such events, means that the age old problem of I have nothing to wear turned into a full on Where the hell is Gok Wan when I need him? Why can’t he magically appear with something that’s not only appropriate but makes me look good enough for a gay man to look twice? And where’s that chick from Ten Years Younger? I could do with some of that shit too.

But alas, there’s only me. No celebrity stylists. No crystal ball. No magic wand. No clue.

I’m going out with Sax. Gay or not, do I want to try to turn his head?  Of course I do.

This then opens up a huge dilemma. I obviously fancy Sax. I’ve made that clear – both to myself and to him. And yes, he likes me, but he rebuffs my clumsy advances. Well, now I know he’s gay so that explains that.

I was so convinced that there was a connection between us. A spark. No, stronger than that. A frisson. On several occasions in the short time since we met, he’s actively sought out my company. He must like being around me too. But he’s gay.

I’m miserable. He’s gay. But hey, on a positive note, he was never going to be into me so I’ve not had to deal with my first rejection since becoming single again. However, it’s not all great – mulling all this over, I come to the only natural conclusion: Sax pities me. He’s making it his mission to be my not-so-fairy Godmother. He’ll probably try to set me up with men and then step back, clapping his hands in glee when we hit it off.

Yet he doesn’t like it when Hugh tries to come onto me. It makes no sense … unless … Sax must instinctively know that Hugh is no good for me – he’s obviously a bit of a player from what Sax has said. Maybe Sax is under the impression that I need to dive headlong into another serious, long-term relationship. Perhaps I need to convince him that I need to have some fun. I’m rusty in the flirting department. I need no commitment hook ups. No strings sex.

And clearly, I need to recalibrate my gaydar … because it was waaaaaaay off with Sax. Or I need to have words with my hormones … there’s no way my body should respond to a gay man like that. It’s immoral … and, quite frankly, a waste of good estrogen.

I’ve convinced myself that I should be open with Sax about what I need in my life right now. I thought tonight would be the best time. However, all that fannying around meant that I had less than an hour to get ready. I found a dress that I used to go clubbing in, many moons ago. I’ve told myself that it’s one of those quintessential, timeless affairs that never go out of fashion. I didn’t believe myself so I threatened to withhold alcohol from myself … I now believe it. Thanks to Spanx, I managed to squeeze myself into it while muttering promises for the new year … dieting … no more ice-cream … no more wine … no, let’s not be hasty … less wine … maybe more Spanx, just to be one the safe side.

I step up to the mirror to appraise my hard work. My make-up looks somewhat reminiscent of the young women I’ve seen frequenting Liverpool city centre on any given evening, although I’ve tamed down my eyebrows and don’t have an orange fake tan … but I do have plump, glossy lips (although I can’t pout for the life of me) and I have more eyeliner and mascara on than I’ve ever worn before. In fact, if you scooped up all the eyeliner and mascara that I’ve ever worn and plastered it onto my eyes, you’d probably end up with something similar to my current look.

I’ve deliberately steered clear of my usual neutral, less is more look, since last time I went clubbing, less definitely wasn’t more – more was definitely more, in fact, more than more was more … to the point where more wasn’t even possible.

Instead, I’ve gone with a retro Eighties look that some glossy magazine or another was saying is ‘on point’ right now. Or at least I think I have. I’m an Eighties baby, my earliest fashion memories are from the nineties so I’m actually guessing, or presuming, mostly from music videos that I think are from the Eighties. Oh God, what if I’ve made a terrible mistake?

I turn to the mirror and scrutinise my meticulously applied makeup. No longer do I see a toned down Madonna or a raunchy Rachel Hunter … I see the heavily made-up face of Alice Cooper, with the addition of cerise pink lipstick – my on fleek turns into an oh fuck. I reach for a makeup wipe with the intention of starting over but, just as I smear blackness from one eye down onto my cheek, the doorbell chimes.

Naturally, I freeze before forcing myself to look at my watch. It’s bang on eight o’clock. Shit. Shit. Shit! That must be the driver.

I hastily wipe my eye but the black gunge that was formerly eyeliner and mascara simply smears around my eye socket and onto my cheek. The more I wipe, the further it spreads but it doesn’t get much paler. I’d thought I looked like Alice Cooper before, I was clearly mistaken. I’m now his long-lost daughter.

Ding, dong.

“Keep your knickers on,” I mutter, scrubbing at my face furiously. “Oh hell. That’s not getting any better.”

The bell sounds again and there’s a hefty knock on the glazed panel for good measure. I stare at my reflection: there’s no way I can go out looking like this. I look like I fell asleep with one half of my face in an ashtray. But, I don’t want Sax to think I’ve bailed. Bollocks!

Grabbing yet another fresh wipe, I dash down the stairs and throw open the door to find a stunning blond wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. He’s probably about the same age as me, possibly a little younger, but his skin is flawless. And those blue eyes … they’re the colour of the Med on a still summer’s day. They’re–

“Miss Duvall?” he asks, before frowning at my face and leaning forward. “Oh my goodness, darling. You look atrocious. What happened? Did you get something in your eye? Isn’t it the worst when that happens?”

Without waiting for a reply, steps inside and peers at my face. “We’re going to be late. Do you have your make-up in your handbag? I mean, all of it? Everything you used?”

I shake my head, unable to speak because his face is almost touching mine.

He steps back and pats my behind. Yes, my behind! I kid you not. “Quick. Scamper and grab it or we’ll be late. I have some wipes in the car that’ll cut through that lot no problem. You can wipe and reapply as we drive. Trust me. Oh, I’m Fez by the way. I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.”

I stare at him. He may as well be stark, bollock naked. I mean, who does that? Who meets someone under these conditions, steps right into their personal space in order to scrutinise their appearance, tells them to scamper off at the same time as patting their bottom? Oh and don’t forget that he appears to be an expert of makeup removal … and that he has wipes in the car.

Am I missing something? Hidden TV cameras, for example.

“It’s bloody typical that you’d get something in your eye the moment you finished applying the most perfect eye makeup since the Eighties, possibly even the Seventies. Oh, I do love to see ultra glamour, especially if it’s retro … and don’t get me started on vintage … no, don’t even go there, Fez. Time is of the essence. We mustn’t keep Sexy Saxy waiting, now must we? He can be such a diva when he wants to be and I know tonight, of all nights, he’d shit a cake if we were even a millisecond late.”

He gives my back the slightest push and I find my feet moving voluntarily across the hallway and back up the staircase. The metaphorical lightbulb goes off as I’m throwing every bit of makeup I’ve used into a bulging makeup bag. The chauffeur downstairs must be Sax’s other half. Or wants to be because there is no doubt he’s gay and that he’s got the hots for my crush. How many men in their thirties do you hear flamboyantly declaring that I’ve applied the most perfect eye makeup since the Eighties, possibly even the Seventies? Not to mention freely admitting how they love to see ultra glamour?

I’m in the car no longer than five minutes – sitting in the front of the limo, not the back because Fez wants to get to know me a little – when I realise this little ray of Graham Nortonlike awesomesauce is what I need in my life. He. Is. Fabulous. Darling.

The wipes he produces cut through my makeup like a hot knife through butter. I make a mental note of the brand … I need these wipes in my life. The limo is so smooth I have no problem reapplying makeup to the right side of my face. Perfectly. Beside me, Fez chats away like he’s known me all my life, patting my leg to emphasise a point or to signal agreement or … well, let’s just say he pats my leg a lot. My bare skin, actually, since the dress I’m wearing just about covers my sagging bottom. Nothing is off limits it seems. Especially when it comes to drooling over hot guys, agreeing top five charts for Hollywood Hunks, TV actors, musicians, fitness models … and so on. It would appear that we have the same taste in men. Maybe not the same, but very, very similar – he throws a curved ball when he includes David Beckham in a list. Anyone who’s stuck it in Posh Spice deserves no place on my lists.

It’s sobering to realise that the majority of winners in the top five charts we’ve compiled are in fact, totally and irrefutably gay. I burst out laughing – it’s either that or burst out crying and I’ve only just got my makeup somewhere near symmetrical. Man, it’s just my fecking luck to be attracted to gay guys. I voice my realisation to Fez, as well as my despair, but he just gasps theatrically before throwing back his head and laughing like a drain. “Don’t lose hope. Maybe, just maybe, some are secretly bi,” he giggles.

Yes. He actually giggles.

“No, Fez. With my luck, they’re all not so secretly Bye Bye, Bella.”

He cracks up, leaving me to study my newly botched makeup job in the mirror. It’ll do. It’ll have to – the limo has pulled to a stop.

“You look a million dollars. Who knows, you might do more than turn the head of some sex god, you might turn him straight,” he says, cupping my face with his hand with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

I pat his hand away but I’m unable to resist laughing with him.

Abruptly, his face smooths out and he’s looking into my eyes with apparent sincerity. “Joking apart, Miss B – is it okay if I call you that? Let me tell you, there is at least one gorgeous hunk who will not be saying bye bye, Bella tonight. Of that, I am certain.”

Before I can question him, he’s out of the car, coming around to the passenger side to open my door, help me out of the front seat and hold the rear door for me to slide into the back.

I face him before I get back in, hands on hips in a show of defiance. “What did you mean when you said–” I begin but I’m drowned out by the wolf-whistle that has both our heads whipping around.

Oh my God. Oh, not just my God but every possible God. Every possible deity. Every possible … everything!

As he nears, I’m not just speechless, I’m practically thoughtless.

Because man, he looks good enough to eat. I try to catch Fez’s eye to underscore our earlier revelation … after all, here is living, breathing proof that all the hottest guys are gay. But I can’t catch his eye, oh no, he’s too busy ogling Sax as he swaggers over to the car. And when I say ogling, I mean openly drooling, not that Sax appears to notice – I guess he’s used to it. He’s all smiles – at me. Gay or not, that smile does things to me it has no right doing. I find myself smiling coyly as a tender blush creeps up my cheeks.

He’s wearing slim fit jeans that I thought were black but, when he slides onto the back seat next to me, I can see they’re indigo. They fit him like a glove. Everywhere, if you get my meaning. And boy, does my hand wish it was in that glove. I’m practically hyperventilating at the thought, despite my brain screaming ‘he’s gay, you stupid cow’, and ‘get your mind out of the gutter – any thoughts of lady sex probably make him vomit in his mouth.’

Yet, those jeans wrapped around those strong thighs and … *cough* other parts, not to mention his mighty fine arse, coupled with his muscular torso inside a crisp white shirt and graphite waistcoat, and that modelicious face … I feel like throwing all my toys out of my pram and stamping my foot for good measure before screaming ‘it’s not fair!’ because it’s not. No offense to men or anything, but Sax is just too damn good looking and knicker-wettingly hot to be gay. There’s no other way of putting it: it really is so unfair.

I catch Fez’s smirk in the rear view mirror as Sax is gushing about how well I scrub up. Oh yeah, he’s cottoned on to the fact that Sax proves my theory that the hottest men on the planet are all gay. Cocky twat … lucky twat … lucky twatless twat. No wonder he’s smirking … I feel like flipping him the bird but Sax has taken my hands in his.

“I must warn you that I’ll have to disappear when we get to the club,” he says, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. Then, when he sees my eyebrows shoot up in horror, he adds, “You’ll be with the guys all evening … and Fez here, I’m sure he’s made a point of acquainting himself with you, yes?”

I nod and Fez winks at me in the mirror. I begin to question why he asked me to come out with him if he’s not going to be around but he continues, talking over me.

“Good. Fez won’t leave your side until you’re with the others and you’re settled … unless he gets to be too much of a pain in the arse and you’d rather be alone, of course. In that case, tell him to do one.”

The jovial teasing in his tone is evident. Fez sticks his tongue out at Sax who feigns disgust. “Put that away, Fez. God alone knows where it’s been.”

Fez clutches his chest. “Oh master, how you wound me. I’m very particular about where it goes … as you well know.”

I gasp, but manage to cover it with a fake cough. I take it my earlier suspicions about Fez and Sax have been confirmed. There is … or has been … something between them.

Fez is holding Sax’s eye in the mirror. Something unspoken passes between them, I’m sure of it.

“I think the man doth protest too much,” Sax quips, breaking their connection. “Besides, I can remember the Bear. I’m surprised you’re still not finding stray hairs inside your mouth.”

“He wasn’t a bear! He just happened to have a very hairy chest!”

“You’re telling me it was just his chest that was hairy?”

Fez grins. “Well, no. But it wasn’t just his body hair that was like a bear … if you catch my drift. The man was built like a grizzly bear … everywhere … and don’t get me started on his freakish stamina.”

“You dirty, dirty dog!” Sax laughs.

“Guilty, as charged,” Fez retorts.

Silence falls but the atmosphere is as charged as a lightning bolt. I spot Fez holding Sax’s eye in the rear-view mirror for way too long once more.

Weirdly, I’m more bothered about being a gooseberry than I am about Fez ploughing into a lamp post as he drives blindly along.

Perversely, it’s because I’m on the outside. I’m not disgusted; I’m disgruntled. In fact, I’m downright jealous. As I look from one handsome face to the other, I can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be the filling in a Fez/Sax sandwich.

I realise that Sax is now staring at me intently, like he knows what I’m thinking. I blush. When I say blush, I don’t mean a subtle pinking of the cheeks … I mean my face is glowing scarlet like a Dutch prostitute’s window.

“You look beautiful, Bella. Thank you so much for agreeing to come. I … I …” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I just hope it goes well. I need you to understand and there are things about me that you might struggle to comprehend. I like you, Bella. I’m glad we’re friends. I’m … I’m not like other men. I’m different. I’m complicated. And it’s important for me that our friendship is based on truths … complete truths, not half-truths.”

I’m frowning. It sounds for all the world as though he’s giving me a warning. A shiver slowly slides down my spine. He has my full attention, that’s for sure. There is something about him. He seems so confident usually. So in control. So content. Yet, here he is, clearly anxious. Not exactly apologising for what he is … who he is … but … who is he that he needs to warn me before I get to know the true Sax?

Does he think I haven’t guessed he’s gay? I almost tell him he has no worries on that score – that something like that would never get in the way of our friendship. In some ways, it would be a bonus. I enjoyed compiling hot men charts with Fez, I could do the same with Sax. I might even be able to pluck up the courage to tell him that he holds the number one slot in my hottest guy every chart.

But for some reason, and believe me, no one is more surprised than me, my brain engages before my Mersey tunnel of a mouth for once. Sax said he wanted me to come tonight because he wants to show me, not tell me. The mind boggles … does he want to show me him getting off with some hunky ripped Romeo? I’d be fine to see him chat up some guy and then leave with him. I can’t say I wouldn’t be jealous of his chosen pickup. I’m selfish enough to think it’s a waste as far as I’m concerned but hey, I’m sure Sax has a different take on that.

I smile at him and he squeezes my hands. I’m not sure how to reply to that. I know I have a big mouth. I know if I try to say anything I’ll out him and he clearly doesn’t want that.

Mind you, if Fez and Sax’s practically harmless interaction in here can make me want to be the mustard in their meaty sandwich, what would watching Sax getting it on with some sexy stud do for me? Or to me, to be precise? Would it make me horny?

Sax is smiling down at me. He seems relieved that I’m willing to let him do this his way. And I am. It’s killing me. But I am.

Of course, I’m intrigued. I don’t understand why he can’t just out himself verbally … in this day and age, it seems madness to want me to see it, rather than just hear it. But, like I say, I’ve never had a gay friend, never been a part of the scene so I don’t know how things are done. Maybe this is how it’s done in the modern world. Maybe it’s only celebrities who blurt it out. Or … oh yes, I’m sure that’s it … he definitely knows I fancy him so he’s letting me down gently, or giving me incontrovertible proof that I’m barking up the wrong tree. He’s into men. I’m into him. I’m not a man. The problem is obvious.

Should my suspicions need further confirmation, which they don’t, the car comes to a standstill in the heart of Liverpool’s gay quarter. I’m ushered up the steps by Sax and through the door and into a large room. With his hand on my back, he steers me towards a bar that’s at least four people deep. When I say people, I mean men. I think I’m the only female in here … presumably, the only heterosexual too. Sax goes up on his tiptoes and I watch him gesticulating over their heads. I don’t know where he thinks that’s going to get him. I can’t even see how many bar staff are at work. I have a feeling we’ll be waiting for our drinks for some time.

Fez appears moments later, although how I don’t know … have you ever tried finding a parking space in Liverpool city centre? I resolve to ask him but before I can, a young man appears at Sax’s side, bearing a cocktail of some description.

“For you, madam,” Sax grins. “A mandarin mojito. I can also heartily recommend the vanilla Martini, but be warned the measures in here are on the larger side … and mixing cocktails has the unfortunate side-effect of wiping out one’s memory … and most of the following day.”

As I take it, I return his smile. “Thank you, kind sir. Your advice is duly noted.”

“Where’s mine?” grumbles Fez with a frown as the barman walks off.

“Like me, you’re supposed to be working,” Sax retorts with a rueful expression. “Speaking of which, I’d better get going. I’ll see you very soon.”

I clutch his arm as he starts to turn away. “You’re working? But …”

“All will become clear, my dear,” he says, flashing me a million-dollar smile and walking hastily away, disappearing between the many male bodies that are queuing at the bar.

Ah, so that’s how he got me a drink without having to queue – he works here. Oh man, don’t tell me he’s going to be behind the bar all night – it occurs to me that he is dressed similarly to the young barman who brought my drink. Of course, Sax fills his clothes much more satisfactorily than anyone else in this room but yes, he does look as though he’s dressed for work.

“Come on,” says Fez. “Your feet will be killing you if you don’t take your weight off them for some of the night, at least.”

I’m about to protest at the insinuation of my weight being too much for my feet to bear when I feel an arm slide around my shoulders. I pull away instinctively and find it’s Hugh who’s attached himself to me and that Phoebe is with him.

“Hey Bella,” he says. “What are you drinking?”

“Hi Hugh, Hi Phoebe. I’m drinking a mandarin mojito … or at least I will be. I’ve not had chance to taste it yet.”

Phoebe flashes her perfect teeth. “Oh you’ll adore it. They’re to die for. I’ll have one too, Hugh.”

“Cool,” he says. “Three mandarin mojitos it is then.”

Fez coughs, none too subtly and Hugh gives him a are you kidding? look. “I’ll get you a mineral water,” he says. “You are driving tonight after all.”

Fez pulls a face but it’s good-natured enough then he leads me and Phoebe away from the bar and through the centre of the large room. Dance music is pumping through the speakers but at a volume that you can hear yourself think … as well as speak. Oh god. That means I’m officially old, doesn’t it? Next, I’ll be complaining about this modern crap and shouting for some Take That. The thought makes me shake my head.

“What’s up?” Fez asks as he steers me to a large circular table and indicates for me to take a seat.

“Nothing,” I mumble, pulling a face. “Just feeling old, that’s all.”

“Feeling up oldies, eh? You might want to keep your hands to yourself in here. With this crowd, you don’t know what you might catch.” He gives a cheeky wink and sinks into the seat next to me. Phoebe takes the one on the other side of me as I pull a face at Fez. I have a feeling he doesn’t take anything seriously. I raise my glass to my lips and take a sip, vowing to be as laidback and chilled as he is … at least for tonight.

Wow! Just wow! This cocktail is delicious … tasting way too much like fruit juice … and it’s warm in here. No wonder Sax warned me. I must be careful how many of these I knock back … I have a feeling these are the kind of drinks that you sip happily … and only when you try to stand up do you realise that your legs are now made of rubber and your head’s floating around like a helium balloon.

Jeez Louise – listen to me. I am officially past it.

I don’t know whether it’s too counterbalance my mature thoughts but I bring the glass back to my lips and knock the lot back in one in a childish act of defiance. On cue, Hugh appears and places another drink in my other hand before taking the empty glass and depositing it on the table.

I feel the slight burn of the mojito as it makes its presence felt in my throat. It feels good. We chat idly until Jack and Ben appear – two more of Sax’s friends that I remember from the first time I met his friends in a bar on his first day at the office. They’re great company and, somehow, as soon as I finish a drink, it’s replaced as swiftly as if it magically refilled itself. Twice, I put my glass down and insist on buying a round but I’m shouted down and my glass is thrust back into my grasp. Oh well, at least I tried.

I realise the volume of the music has grown steadily to the point where we’re now having to raise our voices in order to have a conversation, although I haven’t noticed it changing. Fez is regaling us with snippets of ‘classified’ information involving gay celebrities (including some who purport to be straight) he’s found in compromising positions inside the club and on the backseat of his car. When I ask what they’re doing in his car, he explains that he drives for the club, transporting VIP visitors and VIP performers to and fro.

“Ooooh,” I cry, fluttering my eyelashes. I can’t help it, being in Fez’s dramatic presence, I find myself scrabbling to attain his level of flamboyance. “So I’m your VIP tonight?”

He nods seriously. “Oh yes. You’re my Very Intriguing Pretty.”

I giggle, slapping his arm lightly. “I like you, Fez. You’re good for my self-esteem.”

He winks. “That’s what Matt Bomer said last week when I gave him a private Oscar winning performance.” He nods, sincerely. “Well, he wasn’t up to my usual high standard so I had to fake it. His balls, slapping against my arse were beginning to get on my tits.”

Alas, I’d just taken a healthy sip of mojito … which comes shooting down my nostrils when I snort with laughter. Fez sits there, pointing at me as he pisses himself laughing. Phoebe leaps up to grab a napkin from the tray on the table but Hugh pushes past her. He takes my glass and passes it to Phoebe before taking my face in his hands and wiping his lips across mine before sucking gently on my chin.

I freeze. I think everyone freezes because it’s quiet. So quiet. Unfortunately, I’m too inebriated to realise that it’s too quiet. I’m also frankly stunned that this friend of Sax’s, practically a stranger to me is now licking up the traces of mojito that escaped down my neck.

It’s when his mouth moves towards my cleavage that I’m jolted into action, attempting to pull back from him but I’m sat upright in the high backed chair and he has my face gripped in his hands so the movement does nothing. The overpowering smell of his aftershave is nauseating and, although he must feel me straining to pull away, he keeps his lips on my skin and his arms pressed over mine, preventing me from pushing him away.

Weirdly, I realise I can’t see him. Nervously, I look left and right but I can’t see anything but it’s pitch black. Panic starts welling up inside me until I hear Fez’s voice.

“You okay, Miss B?”

His concerned voice galvanises me. “I will be,” I hiss. “When Hugh gets–.”

Abruptly, Hugh puts his mouth over mine, effectively silencing me and pushing me back into the chair so there’s no escape.

Oh yes, there is.

I use my hands to locate his legs then I abruptly bring up my knee, catching him where it hurts. He hisses but releases me, apparently needing his hands to cover his groin.

“Touch me again and I’ll put them out of action. Permanently,” I hiss loudly.

He shuffles back and it’s then that I realise that the lights have come back on. No, not the dim lights that were on before; these lights are bright. I look around and see heads turned in my direction. Smirks are plastered on all of their faces. I look ahead and realise that we’re sat in front of a stage that’s now lit brightly. There’s a blonde woman standing at the front of the stage, dressed in a long black, silk dress. She’s looking straight at me. She’s not smirking. She’s not smiling at all. Her face is like thunder.

She opens her mouth saying, “Hello, everybody,” but her eyes are still trained on mine. I watch those painted red lips move but I stop hearing her words.

Not her words.

His words.

Sax’s words.

That’s not a blonde woman up there … that’s Sax. In a dress. And makeup. And heels. And …

And …

Fucking hell.

Fuck Gok Wan, where’s my drink when I need it?

I look around at the building formerly known as my home, now flagged as a disaster zone. Bottles and soft furnishings are strewn all over the downstairs rooms, whereas clothes and bodies are strewn across the beds and floors upstairs. It’s a little after six in the morning and all I can think of is a) how unfortunate it would be if Dick decided to grow a pair and fight for our marriage by turning up now to attempt to talk me round, and b) how can I possibly be sober after drinking through the night, emptying Dick’s wine cellar – finishing the party off with his prized 40-year-old port when the wine ran dry. Is it really possible to drink yourself sober?

I’m thinking it must be since I’m not pissed but I’m not hungover. I’m at the sink, filling a mug with cold water since every single glass I own is strewn somewhere around the house. A handful of my neighbours are no doubt already up, awoken by kiddies bursting with excitement now that Father Christmas has wedged his flabby arse down the chimney in order to leave each resident a pile of presents, stuff yet another mince pie down his gullet and knock back yet another alcoholic beverage, making sure to take Rudolf’s treat back up the chimney.

However, my nearest neighbours have no children, not yet – by their own admission, they’re too busy clambering up their respective career ladders and enjoying being a couple with no responsibilities. They’re sporty. Adventurous. They travel the globe in search of exotic experiences, shying away from the usual touristy holidays in favour of once in a lifetime encounters that most of us only see on the Discovery or National Geographic TV channels. Last year it was swimming with giant turtles oh, and spending time on safari in the depths of Kenya with Samburu warriors as their personal guides.

I’d never felt jealous of them and their adventures. I was always eager to watch their videos and experience their adventures second hand, but not Dick. Oh no, he thought they were pretentious and conceited, bragging about their expensive holidays and rubbing everyone else’s noses in it. I’d always pull a face – we could easily afford those trips but Dick hadn’t the slightest inclination to explore. He’s never been the adventurous type.  In fact, Dick’s idea of a holiday is a fortnight in New York … with business meetings lined up every other day. I kid you not.

But right now, they’re not wading through the Amazon rainforest or chasing storms in Texas. No, they’re in their garden, down by the river. They’ve stayed home this year in the hope of experiencing the first white Christmas since her childhood. He’d told me he was going to make sure she got one – I’d assumed he’d have given up once it became clear that a white Christmas in Chester wasn’t on the cards, sweeping her off to Austria’s Kaunertal Glacier where snow is guaranteed, bringing in the new year on the slopes, not forgetting the après-ski, of course.

But no, that would have been a kind gesture of a loving husband. Instead, he’s proven what a catch he is, as if she didn’t already know. Any man who can magic a white Christmas in the face of the warmest December on record, just to put a smile on his significant other’s face, is a keeper in my book. And he has so he is. She’s out there now, frolicking in the snow, her tartan scarf flying merrily behind her, illuminated by the subtle lighting that’s appeared overnight – her shrieks of joy just making it through my double glazing. My perfectly landscaped yet totally snowless garden that I adore suddenly looks drab in comparison, although the sun hasn’t yet risen so it’s bathed in darkness. Theirs looks like an elaborate film set: a snow machine is filling the air with glistening snowflakes, illuminated by a million warm white fairy lights.

Watching them is proof that I’m stone cold sober. Because there’s no way I could be pissed and feel the ache in my chest that I’m feeling right now.

My pre-dawn grey garden isn’t the only dull, drab and dreary thing around here. No, that would be my love life. The aforementioned ache in my chest crept up on me when I watched her run and jump into his waiting arms, the pair of them laughing: happiness personified. Like a knife, the ache twisted when he swung her around and around before taking her face in his hands and kissing her thoroughly, leaving both her and me in no doubt of the strength of his feelings for her. Their relationship is the stuff of dreams – a dream that’s coming true right before my very eyes, every bit as much as her dream of a white Christmas is.

I drop the mug into the sink, not caring if it breaks. I grip the edge of the ivory quartz worktop as realisations wash over me in waves.

Forget about Dick sticking Little Dick into ‘ladies of a certain profession’ for a second. Even without that wakeup call, we didn’t have that type of relationship. He’d never do anything like that for me.

Okay, so not many men would secretly arrange for a snow machine to be installed in their garden along with twinkling lights when their partner’s dream of a white Christmas wasn’t on the cards. But some thought and effort is justified in relation to special events, surely. I had a sneaking suspicion that for most of our marriage, Dick’s secretary had been responsible for choosing his gifts for me. Don’t ask me how but suddenly, I know that it’s more than a suspicion. Actually, yes I do know. I know because when his secretary stopped working for him, my gifts stopped arriving gift-wrapped and the hand-crafted cards bearing thoughtful messages ceased too.

In the last few years, I received obligatory gifts on my birthday, our anniversary and at Christmas but unless you count the box they were delivered in via mail order (usually with next day delivery and sometimes arriving after the event). But no cards, no personalised messages, no sentimentality or emotion demonstrated. Worse still, there was no consideration. The perfumes that arrived wasn’t my favourite or even ones I wore. The jewellery wasn’t what I choose myself … far from it. But I’d been so caught up in the moment to question it before now. I was raised to be thankful and gracious when receiving gifts, not to question the lack of thought or appropriateness.

Now, it’s difficult not to. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dick hadn’t even purchased my Christmas gift by the time he flew out of Dubai. His free time was spent with the ladies from the ‘agency’, judging from his credit card statement so he probably didn’t have time to shop. His gifts from me are stashed in the wardrobe in a spare room upstairs. I’d bought them for him weeks ago, after spending days and days agonising over what to buy the man who seemingly has everything. I’m not joking – I’d lain awake at night, desperately trying to come up with something creative, or useful … or indulgent that would show him how much I care.

Telling him what he meant to me had, over the years, seemed to make him uncomfortable so I’d reined myself in, dropping in a quick ‘I love you’ before he left the house and at the end of phone calls when he was overseas. He used to say ‘me too’. I can’t even remember the last time he actually said those three important words. Or when his actions had shown what his mouth couldn’t or wouldn’t say.

Our lives had morphed practically into one, in that my life revolved around him and his working life – that’s where his priorities lay. Take away the career man and what was left over for me? Less and less every year, that’s what. I gave more and more … I didn’t mean to, it just happened. To please him. To make his life easier.

Did I give more and more – or was it that he took more and more? He used to apologise when his work rode roughshod over our plans … over our lives. When did that stop? He used to promise to make it up to me. Presumably, he stopped bothering to make promises he never kept.

How could I have thought we had a happy union? How could I have accepted that he was perfect for me? That we were perfect together?

Dick was all about self. Selfish. Self-absorbed. Self-obsessed.

What of me? My self? My self-respect and self-esteem has taken a thorough bashing since I turned all Private Dick on Dick and Little Dick, I know that much. I’ve put a brave face on as best I can, resolving to put myself first, to grab a hold of my life and ride the hell out of it … yes, the irony that I’m surrounded by a scene with an uncanny resemblance to a zombie apocalypse, with carnage and comatose bodies everywhere while thinking of living my life to the full, doesn’t escape me.

I’m no martyr, and I don’t usually indulge in self-pity … I mean, what’s the point? It gets you nowhere and only brings you down but right now, being slapped in the face with everything that my neighbours have, has only served to show me not only what I don’t have, but what I’ve never had. Ever. Dick and I were together from Uni. My one and only adult relationship. He’s all I’ve known – relationship wise. Okay, so not sexually speaking, but you can hardly count the couple of inexperienced, unsatisfying exploits I’d had before Dick.

You watch films and read books where the sexual chemistry between a couple is off the charts and yeah, I’ve had that. Dick and I would spend all of our time together in bed at the start – no matter whether it was daylight or not, we’d be in bed when we weren’t in lectures. But was our sex life as sour as the rest of our marriage?

You see, I’ve watched films and read books where the leading lady is reduced to a boneless heap of sensation following a succession of mind-blowing orgasms. Do you know what I mean? Yes? Well, I don’t. For years, I’d assumed all that was Hollywood bullshit and fictional fantasy romance that nobody believed in. Not really. But then, following the worldwide sensation of a certain erotic trilogy of novels, I began to question whether it really existed.

I mean, every single magazine article I read a couple of years or so ago seemed to imply that women all over the country were spicing up their love lives … that men were responding by turning up the heat in the bedroom. I tried, honestly I did. I bought new lingerie – a baby doll that was barely there with nothing underneath. The only heat Dick turned up in response was the thermostatic radiator valve – he said I must be freezing. Then he’d tucked the duvet under his chin and turned over, snoring softly within seconds. I hadn’t bothered again – there didn’t seem any point.

Honestly, I didn’t think you had to have that. Especially if you had everything else. Love. Adoration. Respect. Trust. Monogamy. The whole two hearts beating as one crap. Okay, so it’s not crap for everyone. My neighbours are now having a light-hearted snowball fight and whenever a ball of frozen water hits its target, the victor gives the victim a kiss on the lips … and on it goes. A question forms in my mind … when they’re too cold to stay outdoors in their make believe white Christmas, will they tumble into bed and fuck like porn stars until they’re both completely satisfied?

I turn away from the window, unable to watch any longer – especially with the inappropriate images that are swirling inside my head now. I’ll not be able to look them in the eye again now. Not because I’m embarrassed … oh no, I’m not worried about them seeing me blush with guilt over my mental voyeurism. I’m concerned that they’ll see the green eyed monster lurking behind my grey irises.

Philosophy isn’t really my thing but, as I pour water into the nearest thing I have to a caffeine drip, my coffee machine, I begin to wonder whether dream relationships are on the cards for every one of us in our lifetime. In other words, is my true soul mate still out there? A man who puts my needs before his own … no, scrap that – I’m far too independent for that. A man who considers my feelings and my needs as much as he considers his own?

Maybe he won’t whip up a winter wonderland in my back garden on a whim, just to make one of my dreams come true. But he’ll be my equal. My best friend and my lover. My happiness will be a priority; my needs will be as important as his; our relationship will be built on equality and loyalty – that would be my dream come true. That’s not unrealistic, surely.

And, I can’t help wondering … is it too much to ask that he fucks like a stallion on steroids?

*****

I’m on my third cup of coffee, trying desperately not to think of what my neighbours are doing now they’ve abandoned their winter wonderland and retreated indoors, when party revellers begin to stumble around, bleary eyed and hungover. Some dash off, having somewhere else they need to be on Christmas morning, others seem either unwilling or unable to make a move. Sax is one of them.

He comes sauntering into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of skinny jeans that are just about hanging onto his hips. “Morning,” he murmurs, dragging his hand through his hair. At least I think that’s what he did. My eyes had zoned onto the pronounced V of his abdominal region. A V that looked suspiciously like an arrow head … pointing down to–

Bella! Get a grip!

“M- Morning,” I stammer, forcing my eyes up to his only for them to bounce off and land on the floor at my feet.

“Been up long?” he asks, his voice morphing into a yawn that has him apologising.

“I’ve not been to bed,” I smile. “So you could say that.”

He leans closer. “That mascara hasn’t been on all night. Those lashes look too perfect.”

I laugh, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. “I don’t allow myself many luxuries but mascara is something I don’t skimp on. Thanks to John Lewis, I keep stocked up on Dior’s Iconic Overcurl. It’s phenomenal.”

His lips curl down, showing he’s trying to absorb my beauty tip when it must mean nothing to him. “Duly noted,” he says, nodding his head in apparent approval. I grin, appreciating his humour. “Now, tell me you have bacon, oh domesticated goddess,” he says, sinking onto a barstool at the island. “And coffee. I know you’ll have coffee.”

I laugh and proceed to slide a mug under the nozzle before hitting the Americano button. Oh yeah, I know how Sax likes his coffee. I’m not sure how he likes his bacon. But I’m hoping he likes his eggs scrambled.

“What’s that?” he says, as I turn, his mug in my fingers.

“Hmm?” I say, somewhat absentmindedly, distracted by thoughts of just how Saxon could scramble my eggs.

“Did you say something about scrambled eggs?”

I gasp, almost throwing scalding hot coffee over his groin. Thankfully, I manage to get the mug onto the quartz of the island with minimal sploshing.

Think, Bella, think! Yes, think then speak.

“I usually have smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast on Christmas morning,” I cry, flouncing over to the refrigerator and pulling out a pack of organic, free range eggs and a huge pack of Scottish smoked salmon. It’s no coincidence that it’s there. But it’s not my Christmas morning tradition. It’s Dick’s. God only knows how they found their way into my online shopping basket that the man in a van delivered yesterday. Some habits are hard to break, I guess. “But there’s plenty of bacon if you’d rather.”

“Oh, how very decadent,” he says with a grin, after knocking back half of his coffee. He must have no nerves in his mouth … that coffee was scalding hot. I have to leave mine for several minutes before I can even sip it. Does that mean that nipping of lips and tongue while kissing is ineffective? Well, I’ve only seen and read about such debauchery … but the thought of taking Sax’s lower lip between my teeth makes my innards tingle sharply, which makes me press my thighs together, which makes me blush … and I’m sure it’s not just my cheeks that have heated sharply.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do you need the loo? Go on, I’ll start scrambling the eggs while you’re relieving yourself.”

I thrust the eggs and salmon at him and scurry out of the room before I open my big mouth and ask him why I need to relieve myself if he’s willing to scramble my eggs. Entering my bedroom, I find Phoebe in my bed. Something jangles in the back of my head and I seem to recall that’s why I stayed up all night … all the beds were occupied by people passing out after a cocktail of alcohol. I relieve my bladder and decide to shower. It’s a relief to get out of the crumpled clothes I’ve been wearing for almost twenty-four hours. I manage the world’s fastest shower then pull on clean underwear before getting stuck with the age old question of what to wear.

Five minutes later and I’m downstairs wearing jeans and a cream cashmere sweater with my damp hair pulled into a bun on the back of my head. Even before I’ve entered the kitchen, I can smell something pretty amazing.

“Sit,” Sax demands, jerking his head toward the island. The second my bottom hits the barstool, a plate of creamy scrambled eggs and succulent smoked salmon is placed before me. The salt and pepper mills and a handful of cutlery appears before Sax seats himself next to me with a huge bacon and egg sandwich. I’d kill for that right now. Me and my stupid big mouth.

I push thoughts of Dick away as I shove his Christmas breakfast down my neck, concentrating instead on Sax eating that delicious bacon sandwich. I find my eyes drawn to his fingernails. I’ve noticed them before at work … they’re on my list of noticeables: eyes, shoes and fingernails. A man should have clean, trimmed fingernails but Sax’s make me want to hide mine. His are perfectly manicured and surely, nobody’s nails shine like that unless they’re coated with clear lacquer or they’re buffed to perfection.

I realise he’s watching me. I guess it’s obvious what I’m studying since I’ve unintentionally leaned in to get a closer look. I straighten quickly, shovelling another forkful of fishy/eggy mush into my mouth.

“What are your plans for today?” I ask.

Sax shrugs, then finishes his mouthful of bacon before replying. “I’m in Manchester this evening but nothing until then.”

“Oh. Are you visiting family in Manchester?”

“No. Thankfully, this evening is much less work than visiting my folks.”

I watch carefully for signs of sadness that I’ve seen pass over him before but there’s nothing.

“Ah, a girlfriend then?” I ask, knowing that I’m prying.

Sax laughs heartily, shaking his head. I don’t see why that’s so funny. My confused frown only makes him laugh more.

“No,” he manages, through his mirth. “One day, I’ll remind you of this conversation and you’ll see why I’m laughing.”

My brow furrows further. Nobody likes being the butt of jokes – especially when they don’t know what the joke is. And then it dawns on me and everything slots into place inside my head. “Ah,” I say.

He stops dead, pinning me with eyes that are brimming with an emotion or mix of emotions that I can’t name. It’s silent, his laughter dying a sudden death on his lips. His eyes are searching my face … but for what? I know mine are interrogating his in equal measure. The air is inexplicably heavy, each millisecond drawn out impossibly.

Suddenly, his well-shaped eyebrows bounce and he withdraws from me without either of us moving an inch. “Maybe you should come … if you don’t have plans, that is … it might answer a few of the questions you have about me.” From his tone, I know he’s silently imploring me to drop it for now, and to accept his invitation, although it’s clear he has reservations about showing or telling me something.

I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t have any such thing … but he intercepts. “Oh yes, you do, missy. Don’t worry, I’m not accusing you of being nosy … sooner or later, everyone who spends time with me has questions. I could list several questions you’ve thought of–” He breaks off when I open my mouth to protest, putting his hands up before continuing. “Don’t! I think you should come and see for yourself. Some questions are better answered without words.”

Half an hour later and he’s rounded up the remnants of his flock. They wish me a final Merry Christmas and lurch off down the path to the waiting taxi. Sax lingers inside the front door. “I’ll send my car for you at eight. Please be ready. And if you change your mind, no – don’t use that as an out, please don’t change your mind … but if you do, please let me know and I’ll reroute the car.”

My head’s whirling. “You’ll send your car? You have a car … and a driver?”

He grins but, as always, gives nothing away. “I do.”

I gasp, mostly for effect. “Saxon, is this your way of telling me you’re loaded?” Before he can reply, I gasp involuntarily. “Please tell me you’re not taking me to a posh, formal, family do. I mean, if you are, that’s fine but I need to know what to wear. How to behave …”

He shakes his head, a weary looking smile on his face. “Yes and no.” He puts a finger on my lips before I can demand that he elaborate. “Dress up. Think clubbing. Extreme clubbing. I suggest girly and extravagant. Demure or vamp it up. Whatever takes your fancy. I promise you you’ll not be overdressed … even if you’re practically naked. And I can assure you that even then you’d be quite safe.”

He laughs when I complete my gasping hat trick, leans in to peck me on the cheek and walks backward out of the door. “Eight, don’t be late,” he calls before the taxi door closes.

I stand there for several moments until the shrieks of my neighbour, presumably revelling in the snow once more, forces me to close the door. I suppose I should call my parents to wish them a Merry Christmas and inform them of the last minute change to Christmas lunch. I know it’s selfish but there’s no way I can be a domesticated goddess today. After staying up all night, there’s no way I can even contemplate tackling a turkey. I need sleep.

I decide to call them and break the news about Dick and I splitting. Not very festive, I know, but my parents would know instantly that something’s up, just from hearing my voice. I’ve never been a good liar and they know me far too well for me to attempt subterfuge now. I know my mum will insist upon coming over to check on me … but how to stop her?

Inspiration strikes. I take my mobile out into the garden where the laughter and shrieking has amplified – friends or family with children have arrived and a serious snowball fight is in full swing. Through the chaos, they’ll be less likely to know I’m lying when I pretend to be out with friends. If they can barely hear me, they’ll believe that I’m happy and that the end of my marriage is a good thing.

As I dial their number, I wonder whether they’ll be able to tell how gutted I am that the sexiest guy I know, the one I picture in steamy dreams that I’ve started to have, my new work colleague who makes me feel young and alive again, my new best friend and confidant … is totally and undoubtedly gay.

It’s the eve before Christmas Eve … I suppose it could be called Christmas Eve Eve. Or the day of reckoning, or Doomsday. Simply put, it’s the day Dick is coming ‘home’  – his flight was delayed, otherwise he’d have arrived a couple of hours ago. It had irked me that he still called my home his home. Okay, so he doesn’t know that I’ve kicked him out yet. I didn’t think it was fair to drop the bombshell that our marriage is over, over the phone. Yes, I’m a charitable soul. Or a mug. Yes, he doesn’t deserve me being so considerate. He doesn’t deserve me full stop.

If he knew me at all, he’d know that our marriage was over the very moment he decided it was okay to pay persons unknown for sex. Yes, ‘persons’ unknown. You see, after I’d spilled my guts in the office the other day, Sax took me out for lunch. (I hadn’t realised he was supposed to meet his friends and had blown them off to comfort me until the following day when he insisted I join them all for lunch and Hugh let slip.) During our solo lunch, I’d told Sax everything – not that there was much left to say after my outburst in the office. He’d wagged his finger when I kept referring to Dick’s indiscretions as ‘women’. Then he’d made a good point: how do I know Dick was paying women to service his needs? Maybe he was secretly bisexual. Or even gay.

I’d been tempted to do some more digging into the fancy agency he’d been using. I’d made the assumption that it only provided women when I’d read that it provided escorts, companions and more. It was the word ‘more’ that had set off the alarms in my head. I’d pictured female prostitutes and, when I’d finally plucked up the courage to call the agency to either put my mind at rest or end my marriage, I’d asked whether it was possible to book a woman for ‘more’ and I’d been reassured that it was possible to book a woman, or indeed women (that had raised my eyebrows) – to meet up for ‘more’ practically anywhere in the world. I was left in no doubt that there was practically nothing they wouldn’t do, for the right sum. Yes, the only barrier it seems, is how much the client is prepared to pay. If the client is willing to pay travelling expenses and ‘additional’ expenses for however many women are desired to do ‘whatever’ it is that’s desired (the more element), then the sky’s the limit.

Judging from Dick’s credit card statement, it wasn’t the sky that was the limit … it was his credit card’s actual limit. That was how I found out … their message left on the answer machine, urging him to call to agree to raise his limit, since he’d reached the current one. His platinum AmEx has a £5,000 limit. Per month. Oh but he’s away from home, you say. He’s incurring costs, hotels, food, et cetera, right? Wrong! They go on his company credit card. Not his personal one. He’d been in Dubai at the time. Instead of obeying local laws, he’d dared to risk life and limb, paying to ship in his desired amount of women, for his desired amount of ‘more’. That should have told me how confident and daring he’d become … practically conclusively proving that he’d been doing this for some time. Yet I’d still felt the need to plough through his statements. Every single one of them that I could lay my hands on. That happened to be three years’ worth. He only kept the last three years, shredding the older ones.

He’d give everything else to me to shred. But not his personal statements. Never his personal AmEx statements. I’d assumed that it was because I’d find out how much his frequent gifts cost, not to mention those for birthdays and Christmas, so I’d never questioned it. I’d never gone looking. They were easy enough to find. And, get this, he was only caught out because he’d insisted upon having a spending limit in place for security reasons, in case his card was stolen while he was travelling. I remembered that when I was looking through them. Platinum AmEx cards don’t have a pre-set spending limit. What a pity (for him) that he’d been so concerned with his financial risks instead of being concerned about the risk to his marriage.

I’d booked today off work. I’m wishing now that I hadn’t. I’m rattling around this large house. Our house. My home. I’ve even found it within me to put up some Christmas decorations after I’d realised that all the neighbours had tasteful twinkling trees in their windows and my home was shrouded in darkness when I returned from work each evening. Yeah, it suited my mood. But they’re a nosy bunch. There was some informal yet never broken rule that we’d all put up similar elegant and tasteful decorations so that the Close was coordinated in its classy Christmassy cloak. I’d been tempted to wilfully disobey but, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I could withstand the scrutiny it would evoke. The only thing the wives of the Close liked more than the year round tasteful coordination of their premises is gossip. The juicier and closer to home, the better.

I refuse to give them fodder for their juicers: I refuse to be an orange that’s torn to pieces in search of as much juice as can be squeezed from my bones. So I complied and coordinated. Cowardly concealment.

Although I guess as fast as I concealed my insecurities, I was revealing them. Otherwise, why bother to erect a smokescreen?

I tell myself that I should be walking tall, head held high. I’m the victim in a marriage that was meant for two but spent with more. I shouldn’t mind people knowing what a rat Dick really is. I should be spinning security blankets from their compassion and empathy and shrouding myself in their warmth.

But I don’t.

Because I know what people are like. Once the initial gossip spreads like wildfire engulfing every ear in its path, what’s left?

Devastation.

Scorched and scarred barrenness.

Charred desolation.

Ordinary people don’t stop to tend to the scene of such carnage, they avoid it like the plague.

The devastation is me. And I deserve the right to contain the devastation within me so that it doesn’t rage out of control, from lips to inner ears. The scorching, scarring and charring has occurred inside my chest. The barrenness and desolation is my marriage.

I fondle an ornament on the tree. It’s an angel, given to us on our first Christmas as a married couple. Why’s it on the tree, you ask. Because it was the final gift from my grandmother before she passed away that year – a week before Christmas. She’d loved Christmas, belying her years to become a child upon the first sight of glitter or tinsel. Christmas was an event … the event of the year in her eyes. So, every year since, I’d done my best to maintain the traditions she’d begun, throwing my heart and soul into the festive season. But not this year.

However, when I’d come across the ornament, I’d burst into tears when I’d passed it over. Then, when I’d stood back, not so much to admire the tree, but to ensure that it would pass muster against the unspoken standards of the Close’s Christmas Committee, I’d felt hollow. All evening, the tree had mocked me until I’d reached the point where I was convinced the CCC would know I was faking it. Despite the amount of wine I’d consumed (or perhaps because of it) I’d found myself scooting back up the rickety ladder to retrieve my grandmother’s gift. I decided I’d rather feel something than nothing. Sadness than emptiness.

My grandmother used to say that feeling something – good or bad – was healthy. It meant you were alive. It meant you had a life to be lived. Everyone says life’s too short. Hers certainly was. She was only in her sixties but every one of those sixty-four years had been lived. Really lived. She made up for her unspectacular longevity by cramming in more than most centenarians manage by the time she reached her sixty-four years. Sixty-four …  a little less than double the age I am now. And the life I’ve been living for so many years suddenly feels like a sham. A waste. What would she have to say about that, I wonder.

I lift the ornament off the tree and a bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of my mouth when I admire the love-struck couple so wrapped up in themselves they don’t even appear to notice the snow’s falling thick and fast around them. I thought I had that. Maybe once I did have it. Maybe I took it for granted. Maybe I did something wrong to force Dick to tread the path less travelled in the world of happily ever afters.

The clunk of a car door closing heavily brings me out of my pensive melancholy. I square my shoulders, rehang the ornament and smooth my dress over my thighs.

What would Grandma do?

I close my eyes and inhale slowly, urging the strength and wisdom she’d shown to come to the fore. I exhale, feeling somewhat calmer and stronger. It may be purely psychological but I don’t care. When I open my eyes, Dick is standing in front of me.

He frowns, as if noticing something is different about me then seems to shake it off and opens his mouth. “Tomorrow, dinner with the Mandevilles? Unfortunately, Eugenie was rushed into hospital yesterday but this dinner is important. I’ve emailed everyone to inform them of the change of venue. I knew you wouldn’t mind so–”

“Hello, Richard,” I say, my voice sounding unlike me. “You’ve been gone for a couple of weeks and this is how you greet your faithful wife?”

He frowns, looking completely thrown. “You do mind? What is it? Do we not have what you need? Couldn’t you serve up our Christmas dinner?” He smiles animatedly. “That would be befittingly festive. Your parents wouldn’t mind, would they? Not if you explained.”

I’m suddenly in the middle of a snowball fight, being pelted … instead of snowballs slamming into me, it’s realisations. They leave me just as cold.

Firstly, I’d forgotten that my parents were due to spend Christmas Day with us. Bollocks.

Secondly, this is typical. Okay, so perhaps dropping an impromptu dinner on me at short notice is typical but never before on Christmas Eve, happily robbing us of a family Christmas meal … that’s a first. Him returning and treating me like his secretary, that’s typical.

I know, without a doubt, that once I agree to his demands, he’ll relax and then we’ll morph into our roles of husband and wife. He’ll become a little affectionate, telling me he missed me. Then, he’ll lock himself inside his office, catching up on correspondence for a couple of hours. Then he’ll emerge, expecting to be fed. Then he’ll yawn and head to bed. To sleep.

But I’m not going to. I tip my head to one side and attempt to figure out what he’s going to care more about – his thwarted business dinner or his marriage ending. If I were a gambler, I’d say the odds are stacked firmly in the dinner’s favour. You see, Dick’s so successful at negotiating contracts worth millions … billions even … because he’s a master at negotiating. He’d be confident he could talk his way out of what he’d surely call a misunderstanding on my part. In terms of priority, the dinner would come first because it requires preparation to go off without a hitch, and that means starting work on it right now. That’s probably what he felt about our marriage … without realising that it’s not only the ceremony that needs preparation and consideration. That it’s a lifelong commitment that always needs work to go off without a hitch.

Now ours is about to go off like cream, left to fend for itself on a sunny windowsill. Coagulating. Curdling.

And like cream, we too will separate in sourness.

I feel my lips moving but my ears can’t distinguish the words over the whooshing of the adrenalized blood as it’s pumped double time to my brain, which is on auto-pilot, having rehearsed this moment for days.

I stare blindly until I see realisation dawn on his face. He frowns and withdraws into himself. I can almost hear his brain whirring. He’s not had the luxury of a rehearsal. He hasn’t been able to plan this to go off without a hitch. He’s attempting to find the best way of negotiating his way out of this.

I calmly tell him that there’s no way out of this. That I don’t need his admission of guilt to know that he’s broken our marriage vows. I tell him that he’s not staying here tonight and, when he attempts to protest, I calmly inform him of the reservation I made in his name at the nearby golf club’s hotel. A reservation for a room for ten nights. Made on his platinum AmEx card once I’d cleared the balance for him out of our joint account after he’d breached his self-imposed limit because of those not so secret purchases to the ‘escort agency’.

He goes an odd colour but then seems to get a second wind, evidenced by the red patches appearing high on his cheekbones, as he churns forward all the reasons for needing secretarial services or a companion for gala dinners etc. He calls them legitimate business expenses.

I walk to the front door and open it, knowing that he won’t make a scene in front of our neighbours. I smile sweetly as he nears, then point at his luggage, lying where he dropped it, just inside the front door before delivering the coup de grâce.“Legitimate business expenses would be charged to your legitimate business credit card. You’ve always prided yourself with how fastidious you are with your expenses and financial matters. Don’t attempt to insult my intelligence. However, do expect to hear from my solicitor. Let me know where you’re staying in the longer term and I’ll have your belongings delivered.”

He stands there, glaring at me. I can almost hear his thoughts: this is his house too, he pays the mortgage too, I can’t afford it on my salary, why should he leave … and so on. I know, those thoughts occur to me in my moments of doubt and indecision. But no more. It’s time to start living my life. So when he opens his mouth to protest, I call a cheery greeting and lift my hand as if waving to a neighbour who isn’t there, but Dick can’t see that. He looks as though he’s going to combust before he lets out a long breath and stomps over to his luggage, grabbing both cases.

I do nothing except hold the door open, until he draws level. He looks as though there’s something he wants to say. Lots of things he wants to say. But my eyes lock onto his and my glare is unflinching, even when I say, “Merry Christmas, Dick.”

I close the door quickly, almost slamming it as soon as he clears the threshold. Then I slump down the cool, solid wood, crumpling into a heap on the floor. Exhausted is an understatement. But underneath it all is a sense of achievement. I blink back tears as I wonder whether my old Grandma would be proud of me. Whether she’d approve. I’d like to think she would.

The ringtone of my phone blares into the solitude. I reach inside my pocket for it, to turn it off so I can sit here and lick my wounds for a little longer. I hesitate when I see Sax’s name but the call cuts off before I can decide whether or not to answer. Then I see I have a load of text messages. All from Sax.

Apparently, if I don’t agree to a night out with him and his friends, they’re going to come and get me. I glance at the time. Shit, they’ll be here in less than half an hour unless I can contact him. I hit the dial button but, before it can connect us, I cancel it. What’s the point? Sax knew I was having ‘the confrontation’ with Dick today. If he answered and I told him I didn’t feel like going out, he’d turn up here anyway. He’s threatened it since I told him. He says there’s no point in being sad all alone when I can be sad with friends. Something about the way he’d said it made me realise he’s known sadness. True sadness. But the moment for me to sensitively probe had passed before I could formulate words so I’d left it. My brain processes the fact that Sax knows about sadness and he says it’s better to not be alone.

I pick myself up off the doormat and smile. I’m not a doormat. Not these days. I’m Bella and it’s time to live my life, not Dick’s. I race upstairs and get ready in record time, although I’m gripped with nerves and doubts that I look like an old maid compared with Sax and Co which results in two hasty changes of clothes. It’s about to result in a third when I hear the heavy tone of the doorbell echoing up the wide staircase. I grab a clutch, throwing in my purse, mobile phone and lipstick and, when the doorbell sounds again, I head down the stairs.

I thought it would be Sax on my doorstep and that there’d be a taxi waiting, but there are two waiting to pull out of the drive. Sax and Co burst into the worst rendition of Silent Night that I’ve ever heard, giving me serious concerns that my neighbours might call Environmental Health to complain that their night is anything but silent. I usher them inside. They’re a crowd of giggles, bottles and Christmas greetings as they tumble inside.

“Sax said you probably wouldn’t agree to come out for our Christmas party so we’re bringing the party to you,” Phoebe says as the group conga past me and wind their way into the lounge.

“Partaaaaaaaay,” cries Hugh, bringing up the rear of the impromptu conga.

When they’re past, I see that Sax has waited. I shake my head at him as I push the front door closed.

“How’d it go?” he asks, his face the image of concern.

I reach out and take the bottle of Pinot Grigio from his grasp, twisting off the cap, I give him a smile. “It could have been worse,” I say, tipping up the bottle and taking a greedy slug.

“That’s my girl,” he says, pulling me into his side. “Now where’s the music? You can’t have a party without music?”

I shake my head yet again. “What will my neighbours think?”

Sax grins, “That they wish they were invited?”

I grin up at him. Yeah – who cares what they think?

I’m Bella Duvall. I’m thirty-four and I’m having a party for the first time since Uni.

I’m living. Not existing. I raise the bottle in the air and say, “Here’s to living life to the full, Grandma,” before taking another slug.

Sax looks confused for just a second, then he grabs the bottle, saying, “I’ll drink to that.” And he does.

We all do. Until gone midnight and the booze supply runs dry.

It’s Christmas Eve, I realise.

I wonder down to Dick’s wine cellar and select a few bottles that I’m too pissed to pronounce but I know they’re expensive. I stagger back into the lounge that now resembles a bomb site. Over the thumping bass that’s pouring out of the Bose speakers, I hold up the bottles, yelling, “Merry Christmas, everybody,” with an uncanny resemblance to Noddy Holder that wasn’t intended. That’ll be a nod to my time living in the East Midlands.

There’s a loud cheer, before I’m relieved of the bottles by an elated Hugh who attempts to kiss me. I step back. Or at least I thought I did. I find myself backed up against Sax’s chest with his arms snaking around me. Hugh looks shamefaced and heads off to uncork the wine.

I stay where I am. And not just because my feet aren’t to be trusted. Because it feels good.

“I like this,” I tell Sax, looking up at him over my shoulder. “You’re so lovely. And sexy.”

He smiles down at me. Again I see that sadness flick over his face, but before I can ask him what makes him so sad, he releases me and announces that he should help Hugh with the wine. Hands grasp me and pull me into onto the makeshift dancefloor aka my dining room and I find myself doing the Macarena like a five-year-old. And loving every second of it. I think Grandma would be proud.

It's my third anniversary of publishing romance. Three whole, glorious years. I'm celebrating being able to have my dream job - and it's thanks to everyone who reads my books. So, for the next few days, I'm having a sale.

ALL OF MY BOOKS ARE 99p ON AMAZON US/UK UNTIL MIDNIGHT ON CHRISTMAS EVE - THIS INCLUDES BOX SETS.

Grab yourself a bargain before the sale ends:

http://www.amazon.com/J.D.-Chase/e/B0...

Oh yes. Oh … oh … yes! Mmmmm. Yes. Ahhhhh, oh yes! Thankfully, these responses are inside my head because my filter, for once, is firmly engaged, stopping them from spewing out of my mouth. Sax is kissing my neck as his strong hands caress me through my thin silk blouse. His lips slide up to my ear, making me shiver with anticipation as I turn my head to give him better access. I feel his mouth curve into a smile as it bestows feather-light kisses along my jaw. He pulls back and regards me with eyes full of yearning, full of promise and definitely full of impending satisfaction.

His arms are around me dipping me into the Hollywood golden era embrace. That’s it; I’m putty in his hands, and gooey putty at that. Now he’s kissing me as though his life depended upon it and we’re just about to get naked when I hear an odd noise. I burrow down into his chest, sighing at the warmth and comfort it brings but the noise doesn’t abate. If anything, it gets louder.

What is that? It’s really off-putting.

I bolt upright and realise two things simultaneously. One, I’m dying. Two, someone is banging on my door like they want to break it down.

Oh and three, I’m not about to get it on with the gorgeous one. It was a stupid sodding dream. I slump back into the warmth of my duvet and immediately regret it as a wave of nausea washes over me. Why oh why did I think it was a good idea to drink a whole bottle of wine on a school night? Okay, so my recycling bin would suggest it was two bottles but my recycling bin is clearly a compulsive liar.

Bang. Bang. Bang!

“Get stuffed,” I mumble from under my duvet, not caring that whoever it is that’s hell bent on kicking in my front door can’t hear me. By the time I manage to get both feet out of bed and not vomit, the banging has stopped. The merry-go-round inside my head, has not. Bright morning light is flooding into the room because someone, namely me, forgot to close the curtains last night when I literally crawled into bed.

I feel my way into the en suite and manage not to fall down the toilet, despite misjudging the arse-to-seat-manoeuvre twice. Something’s wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. Yes, as I pee for England, I know something definitely isn’t right but, since my urine stream is impersonating Niagara Falls in terms of volume (amount and loudness), my head isn’t capable of rational thought … except the one saying ‘do yourself a favour – get back into bed, Bella’.

I’m tempted but I guess my rebelliousness needs some work. I sigh, wipe, flush and then turn on the shower. It’s when I’m rinsing off my conditioner that I realise what was amiss as I teetered into the en suite. It’s light inside my room … now, unless that was a S.W.A.T. team hammering on my door and they have floodlights trained on the house, that means daylight. In December. Bollocks!

I step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and attempting to get it around me as I leg it into the bedroom. Instead, I trip over it and stumble forward, stubbing my big toe on the foot of the bed. “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch!” I sit on the bed and rub my toe completely forgetting what I was supposed to be doing until I realise I’m squinting because of the insensitive sunlight. Why couldn’t it be cloudy today, for goodness sake? And why is it so bright?

Oh shit. That’s what I was doing … I turn quickly.

Big mistake.

I almost lose control of the contents of my stomach. I still, closing my eyes, and waiting for the ‘boat rocking’ to subside.

There actually could be a S.W.A.T. team at my front door, you know. That goddamn inconsiderate racket could be a battering ram, trying to smash down the solid oak door. Yes, the banging has commenced again … but no, it’s not the police’s fault. It’s mine. Or that of some vineyard. The thumping is only inside my head. I’m relieved, since I don’t want to be the subject of a dawn raid, but at least the end of that bloody awful noise would be in sight.

I don’t think I’m going to be so fortunate. There’s no shortcut to stop the hammering in my head.

There is, however, a household conspiracy … first the recycling bin and now my alarm clock – both telling whopping fibs. It can’t be ten to nine. It just can’t . . .

Crap.

Shit.

Oh bloody hell.

*****

It’s ten-thirty when I practically limp through the door of The Miles Onions Entertainment Agency. The door slams shut behind me and I automatically turn to Miles’ desk to give my apologies, only to find it empty. I look across to Shallot’s desk and blissfully, that’s unoccupied too. I can’t believe it. I’ve only got away with being very, very late – something that only Shallot seems to do – on a regular basis. But for my hangover, I’d be tempted to do a Shania and burst into song to celebrate my tardy behaviour sneaking under the radar.

Speaking of Shania, I can feel eyes on me but the office is silent. And I plan to keep it that way for as long as I can. I know I won’t get away without Shania at least making some attempt at a humorous, possibly sarcastic, interjection but the longer I can stall her, the better, since I’m still in the hangover’s grip and, because of my rushing around, my head’s banging again and I’m in serious need of a caffeine injection. But still, I got away with being late – Shania’s observations will be a small price to pay for my victory. I grin, keeping my eyes straight ahead and hobble up to my bestie, hitting it up for a cappuccino, heaping in an extra sugar because, you know, I have cause to celebrate. I’m a rebel. A rebel who rolls in late and gets away with it. Go me!

My arse just meets the seat of my executive office chair (a cast off from Shallot) when I realise that I have not, in fact, got away with it. Far from it. Within sixty seconds I’m wishing Miles and/or Shallot were here: grovelling to the boss or his irritating daughter would be far less torturous than being interrogated by a smug looking Shania. It starts off innocently enough.

“Good morning, Bella. Or should I say good afternoon?” she says, looking up at the clock with a huge grin on her face.

“Good morning, Shania,” I retort, assuming that she’s grinning because of the absence of management to witness my tardiness. I look towards Sax and wish him a good morning but I can’t meet his eye. Memories of my lustful thoughts have me blushing scarlet – even if they were dreamed and therefore, out of my control. Before he has a chance to reply, Shania continues, and I can hear the glee and unspoken request for gossip, since her voice goes up an octave. “Heavy night, last night?”

I boot up my computer trying to spot the hidden agenda – unless of course it’s just because I’m so uncharacteristically late.

“Not particularly,” I say nonchalantly.

“A late night then?” she persists.

“A little.”

“Go out, did you?”

I busy myself, logging on and opening my emails, hoping that she’ll get bored. Something’s going on here. Feeling his eyes on me, I glance over to Sax, planning to give him a smile but he looks away hastily as if I’d caught him in the act of something nefarious.

“So where did you go?” Shania persists. Man, she’s like a dog with a bone.

“I didn’t,” I mumble with a slight shrug of my shoulders. It’s my feeble attempt at putting her off the scent … but my disinterest only seems to fuel further interest.

“Hmm, so you stayed home.” She says it like it’s a fact. “Oooh, is Richard back early?”

I look over, eyebrows raised but she cackles and cries, “Of course he is. Why else would you come scurrying in here late, looking like you’d been kept up half the night and barely able to walk … you lucky, lucky thing.”

I gasp as I grasp her meaning. I open my mouth to tell her about my toe stubbing incident but she’s off, having an almighty paroxysm of laughter. I see Sax observing the situation closely and for some reason known only to my stupid brain, I find myself blushing before I can look away, which of course only goes to prove my guilt in Shania’s eyes. She points her finger at me accusingly, helpless to do anything more because of the constant cackling.

Thankfully, the phones start ringing and Sax quickly grabs his phone and picks up the call. Immediately, Shania comes scooting over to my desk – a psychedelic vision that has my head hurting and my stomach churning – even when she’s standing still. The reason for the interrogation becomes clear. So does the realisation that if there was ever a time to be a full-blown rebel and pull a sick day, it was this morning. What a shame that realisation was too late.

“So,” she says, eyes as big as my monitor. “Let’s have all the juicy deets.”

I frown. This is where my belated rebel realisation begins.

“Oh come on,” she says, nudging me none-too-gently in the ribs with her elbow. “You’re different. I can’t put my finger on it but something’s changed with you. You’ve never turned in late before – and you should have seen your face when you came through that door. You looked across to Miles’ desk with an expression that said ‘Fuck you.’ That, Bella Montgomery-Smythe, is just not you. So what gives?”

Oh God. This is where I have to confess that my marriage is over. That Rich– Dick would rather pay for sex than get it on with me: his wife.

Oh, my poor, poor head. I need paracetamol … or something stronger. This hangover isn’t getting a chance to leave me in peace. I wonder if a hair of the dog is called for … how long is it till lunch?

I realise Shania is staring at me expectantly. Bollocks. I open my mouth, grasping at straws to put her off because I really can’t deal with this now. Not until my head’s feeling human but, before I can even formulate a reply, she’s off again. “Oh my God, you’ve got another job, haven’t you? You don’t care about this one because you’re moving on, aren’t you?”

I shake my head feebly.

She gasps theatrically. I prepare myself for her ‘lightbulb’ moment, assuming that she’s backtracked and figured out that Dick and I are no more.

“I’ve got it!” she crows, clapping her hands, and I have to bite back the sarcastic riposte that’s on the tip of my tongue … what, syphilis?

“You’re pregnant!” It’s definitely a statement, not a question. I hear a thud on the other side of the office and turn to find Sax staring at us, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as he blindly attempts to put his phone down, only to miss … several times.

I blush the colour of beetroot. Why the hell do I do that when accused of something I’m not guilty of? All it does it convince everyone of my guilt when I am, in fact, innocent. Well, pregnancy’s hardly a crime, now is it? On second thoughts, being impregnated by Dick’s traitorous sperm probably would be a crime … not to mention unsafe. Syphilis comes to mind for the second time in as many minutes.

Maybe, given his philandering ways, a visit to a sexual health clinic should feature in my near future. Oh God. A failed marriage and an STD … not much to look back on in my year-end review, is it? Maybe I’ll defer my fresh start until the new year. A new year, a new me. Yeah, onward and upward.

My thoughts have taken over and I’ve drifted off, taking my whole self to another place. As my eyes come back into focus, I realise I’ve been staring, unseeing, at Sax’s phone. My eyes slide to his face. He’s frowning at me and I don’t know why. I hear an exaggerated throat clearing exercise and turn to come practically face to face with Shania who’s staring at me expectantly. Expectantly … oh no!

“No!” I exclaim, probably louder than necessary, given that she starts visibly. “I’m not pregnant, Shania.”

Disappointment floods her features. I know she likes to be right and that she’s only disappointed that she’s wrong, not that I don’t have a bun in the proverbial. However, for some reason known only to my raging hangover or deranged emotions, I know not which, I’m suddenly pissed off with her. No, make that inexplicably and unimaginably angry … so what do I do? I don’t so much react as overreact.

“I’m not pregnant. I don’t have a new job. I wasn’t up all night shagging. I was actually alone last night. All night sodding long!” I can see how my vitriolic outburst has taken her aback. She’s looking unsure of herself … practically regretful – something that’s unheard of for Shania. Something rolls in my gut, and I feel pleased that she’s regretting her unwarranted intrusion into my private life. Maybe I can teach her to think before she goes sticking her nose into other people’s business.

Emboldened, I continue, although frankly, as soon as the words start leaving my mouth, I want to jump out and take them back before they reach her ears. Sadly, I can’t. “I was alone last night. I’ll be alone tonight. Not because Richard’s on a business trip, but because I am alone. My marriage is over. I, Bella Duvall, am therefore single. Washed up. Alone. An old maid. Spinster. Unfucked and unfuckable it seems.”

I see her gasp before I hear it and, for some reason I’ll never get to the bottom of, my mouth keeps on running. “I wish I hadn’t been alone last night. I wish I had been fucking some stud until the early hours before falling asleep, my needs properly sated … something I’ve not experienced for some time – if ever. So now you know, Shania. You wanted to know what’s different about me – well, there you have it.”

Now anyone with an ounce of normality, finding themselves on the receiving end of such a rant would either apologise or scuttle off, or both – that would certainly be my course of action. Not Shania. That just goes to show how not normal she is.

“What happened?” She asks, her regretful expression now morphing into one of eager anticipation. “Did you grow apart? Lots of couples do, you know. Especially couples who’ve been together since their late teens like you two. I guess that’s the downside of settling down early. You haven’t had a chance to become who you really are. I’m right, aren’t I?” She’s nodding as though I’ve already given her confirmation.

“No, Shania. We didn’t just grow apart. If you must know, and clearly you must … I found out he had a penchant for fucking prostitutes!”

I take some satisfaction from eliciting the second gasp of the day from her O-shaped mouth before I continue. “You didn’t see that coming, now did you?”

She clearly didn’t. She’s stock still like a statue of modern art … no, scratch that, she looks more like a toddler’s finger painting (she’s wearing lime green and orange today).

“Now you’ve got what you came over here for, perhaps you’d better get on with your work,” I spit, knowing that I’m on shaky ground in the morality stakes when it comes to work, given that I was so late and that I still haven’t managed to do a thing yet. But she just stands there, gawping at me. I pick up my cup and stomp past her to my office ally, my dependable friend, Nespresso, knowing it will give me what I need. Or so I think … an angry, flashing warning light is all I get when I stab my finger on the button.

Without warning, I burst into tears as if a blinking red light is more than I can cope with. I stand with my back to the office and attempt to get myself under control, not least so I can see what I’m doing to get the caffeine I so desperately need. With even less warning, I feel two strong arms wrapping around me from behind and I stiffen instinctively. I’m gently pulled back into a muscular chest as my nose is assaulted in the best possible way by a scent that is only vaguely familiar, yet is incredibly comforting.

“Oh Bella. I’m so sorry,” he whispers as I feel myself relaxing against him. “Your husband must really be a dick. If you want someone to talk to, I’m here for you. If you want someone to get pissed out of your skull with, I’m here. If you want someone to help you celebrate the beginning of a whole new chapter of your life, I’m here. If you want to pretend that nothing’s going on, that everything’s completely normal, that’s fine. Just say the word. Whatever you want, I’m here. Unless you want me to leave you alone, then feel free to tell me to piss off, and I will. But if that’s what you’re about to do, can I first just say, for what it’s worth, back there … you were … well, you fucking showed her. I think you’re pretty awesome.”

I smile though my tears, knowing that he can’t see me. I’m grateful for his intervention, although it is the last thing I was expecting. Of all the options he’s given, getting pissed together sounds like the best plan.

I don’t know this man. Not at all, but in the two days since we met, I’ve ended up in his arms twice. Maybe I’m inexperienced in these things but I’m pretty sure that’s not something that happens often. Add to that the fact that I was on the verge on an unstoppable sobfest that’s stopped in its tracks … and that just being in his presence messes with my head, making me feel and act like a teenager with raging hormones … I think Sax might be just what I need right now.

I can’t help wondering whether it would be inappropriate of me to suggest another option. One that involves several of his options, just to be fair. We could get pissed as I tell him all the gory details, then celebrate my new single life … before fucking Dick out of my system, making damn sure that I fell asleep totally and utterly sated … something that Dick never accomplished.

I nibble my lip as the words form in my brain. It would be so easy to let them tumble out of my mouth.

Should I, or would that be a step too far?

 

Well, should she? Part six, coming soon!

I’m almost quaking in my books when Sax drapes his arm around me and introduces me to his lively group of friends. I can do this, I tell myself. I can socialise with new people. I can mingle with twenty-somethings without making myself look or feel old. And I can do it without embarrassing myself – after all, this is nothing compared with being the hostess with the mostest where every minor detail of a formal dinner has to be utter perfection. Where the slightest faux pas could mean a tumbling in the rankings of Dick’s business and social standing and the cold shoulder for me.

Yes, this is easy compared with metaphorically juggling hundreds of plates in the air for hours at a time, making sure none of them sustains so much as a chip. All for Dick. For his future. For his needs. Not mine. This is for me. I need friends. I need companionship and, even if I never see these people again, I need to know that I can get out there. I can meet new people. I can be carefree – selfish even, doing things just for me. For my happiness. For my future. For my present. No pressure. Just enjoyment. Come on, Bella … ‘just do it’.

I give them a huge grin in an attempt to fit in with the rowdy joviality I’d witnessed through the window … but then I realise that they’re all silent and staring at me. Upon taking in the array of raised eyebrows and smirks, my generous toothy smile becomes frozen, like rigor mortis but painful. Sax looks from them to me and back again, his brow furrowed. Oh god, did I utter that phrase out loud? Do they think I’m so lame as to a sportswear brand for motivational advice on how to live my life? Oh crap, I am lame and I must have muttered it out loud. Why else are they all staring at me like I’m a total loser?

Still grinning like The Joker, I hear Sax burst out laughing … a real belly laugh that booms around the busy bar. I look to him in confusion, I mean it wasn’t that funny, but he’s holding on to the table literally cracking up, so I look back to his friends who now look like they’re witnessing a zombie apocolypse. That’s when I realise my cheeks have relaxed from my maniacal grin but my lips are stuck to my teeth. I’ve gone from Batman’s Joker to The Shining’s ‘here’s Johnny’ in seconds. Who knew I was so adept at Jack Nicholson impersonations – certainly not me.

I attempt to smile again. My dry lips stretch to the point where they feel like they’re going to split. I want to get out of here but I can’t. It’s not just my lips that are frozen in place, my feet are showing solidarity. All I can do is stand here, listening to Sax laughing hysterically when he catches sight of my face. They look from him to me, a totally captivated audience. I hope their expressions convey bemusement but I fear I’m being optimistic – they look like they’re watching complete carnage unfold before their very eyes. Like rubberneckers witnessing a pile-up on the opposite carriageway of a motorway; they know they should look away but morbid curiosity has them spellbound.

Sticking out the tip of my tongue, I try to lick my teeth to free my trapped lips but my mouth is devoid of saliva. Doh! Of course it is, that’s why my lips are welded to my teeth. So I’m left, standing here like a weird hybrid of bug eyed lizard, complete with flicky out tongue and a silently snarling Rottweiler. Actually, can something snarl silently? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

Whoa! I’m dragged from my unfathomable ponderings of the English language when I’m dragged by a forceful arm into Sax’s side. “No!” he says, barely managing to speak through his laughter. “This isn’t her.”

“No?” asks an immaculately turned out brunette at the front of the bunch, giving me an extra thorough onceover with her meticulously made up eyes. She looks like she’s one third of a girl-band who grace the cover of shiny magazines that I now feel too old to buy. She also looks like she’s having trouble believing whatever it is that Sax is trying to say.

I’m lost, looking around me with my lipless smile still in full force. I notice that Sax now has a bottle of beer in his hand. Without thinking, I grab it and take a swig, swooshing it around my mouth like Listerine. It frees my lips but my initial lipless contact with the mouth of the bottle results in beer dribbling down my chin. I hastily wipe it with the back of my other hand as I hear Sax say, “No. That’s Charlotte, not Bella.”

“Phew,” says the gorgeous brunette, introducing herself as Phoebe. “Pleased to meet you Bella, not Charlotte. There’s only room in this group for one sexual predator and that’s me.” She laughs good naturedly. But Sax leans in and whispers, “You think she’s joking …”, making me raise my eyebrows and giggle, although I’m really not sure he’s just joshing.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bella,” says an intellectual looking guy with floppy hair and gooey treacle eyes, while the others chuckle at the misunderstanding. If Richard Curtis ever stops me in the street, telling me he’s searching for another Hugh Grant, he’s the man for the job. “For fear of further confusion, I shall call them Salacious Charlotte and Beautiful Bella.” He reaches forward and takes my free hand, bringing it to his mouth where he brushes soft lips against the back of it, all the time looking into my eyes.

Of course, I blush instantly but at least I’m able to coyly smile my thanks now that my face is working properly again. Several dozen butterflies take flight in my stomach as I realise that this is the closest I’ve come to flirting in … well, more years than I’d care to admit.

“Good one, Hugh,” Sax says, taking his beer from my hand and reaching forward to tap the bottle against Hugh’s. “I’ll drink to that.” The rest of the group joins in with mutterings of ‘cheers’ and bottle clinks of varying enthusiasm, making me feel like a spare part. I grasp the bottle back from Sax and join in, tapping the bottle against Hugh’s (of course his name is Hugh, what else would it be?) and he rewards me with a smile that melts those treacly eyes another few degrees and, let me tell you, that’s not all it melts.

I feel myself looking up at him through my lashes as he bathes me in sweet sunshine. And the butterflies that were fluttering gracefully around my insides? They’re now soaring on the currents of a heady cyclone of something I can’t quite put my finger on that’s bubbling up unbidden inside me. I can practically hear them whooping in delight at this unexpected opportunity to unfold their dusty wings and it’s all I can do not to join in. Space is made for me to sit between Sax and Hugh: a rose between two horn-inducing males.

The final half an hour of our lunch break goes by way too quickly. In that time, I’m aroused (alas, merely my curiousity) and stimulated (conversationally). I make the most of every single minute, not knowing when I’ll have an opportunity to be not only accepted, but embraced into a fun-loving group like this again. They’re a patchwork of personalities, a jumble of fashions and styles, a hotchpotch of opinions, a medley of vocal volumes with such diversity of dialogue … in short, they’re a breath of fresh air in the stagnant troposphere that is my social life.

As people begin to reach for coats and scarves, Hugh leans down and whispers, “I hope you’ll join us again very soon,” in my ear. His warm breath tickles the sensitive skin behind my ear sending a troupe and tap-dancers pattering down my spine. I resist the desire to shiver and instead inform him that I’d like that very much. He takes my hand and chastely kisses the back of it, making me blush outwardly and swoon inwardly, until Sax loudly clears his throat and glares at Hugh who takes the hint and backs off with a wink in my direction.

We spill out onto the pavement, the air full of promises to meet up in the near future as others ratify previous engagements or hastily reschedule. I feel ostracised slightly, not by them, but by the realisation that I don’t have any social commitments, not a single one – despite the calendar hanging in my kitchen being full of the things. They’re Dick’s commitments, not mine.

Phoebe air kisses me gracefully before kissing Sax full on the lips. “See you later, darling,” she says, immediately piquing my interest. She pulls away and gives me a smile before hastily looking back to Sax. “What about inviting …” she says, seemingly changing her mind, although she’s looking at Sax pointedly. His eyebrows are raised as he chews on his bottom lip, seemingly mulling something over.

“Not yet, Phoebs,” he says, nodding as if to convince himself. “Too soon.”

She returns his nod, bids us goodbye and then sleeks off, as graceful as any catwalk model. I’ll bet she knows her way around the latest Prada collection. From that exchange, I’ll bet she knows her way around Sax’s anatomy too. Either they’ve been a couple or they’re a thoroughly modern pair who give in to their carnal desires on a regular basis with no strings and all that. Whatever it is, I can’t help but feel a teensy bit jealous. But then, I’m envious of anyone getting any. Soon, my cobwebs will have cobwebs. I need someone with a big, stiff broom to sweep them away. And surely, regular sweepings will be in order. Maybe with the same broom. Maybe with a selection of brooms.

The light carefreeness of the past half an hour begins to settle heavily as everyone begins to go their separate ways. Sax takes my hand in his, like we’ve been friends for years, and tugs me towards the office with tales of how much his friends like me and how much other friends, who weren’t there today, will adore me. With every step we take, my footsteps become lighter, carefree even. That’s the Sax effect; he has Sax appeal. And he has it in spades. Buckets even. I know he was the centre of attention today because they were celebrating the first day of his new job, but I suspect he’s the glue holding that diverse friendship group together. I’d witnessed friends seeking his advice, informing him of news, and requesting his presence at various get-togethers.  He’s one of those people who don’t live life on the outskirts, they’re always smack bang in the centre of all the action: the centrality of the glorious gallimaufry of the gathering. Put simply, he’s the sun. Everyone else are planets.

And it’s not limited to his friends. I’m not blind to the looks we’re getting, well, that he’s getting. I have the feeling that I’m invisible to the majority although a few women give me evils as though they begrudge me the opportunity to be in this man’s presence, holding his hand as though there’s something between us. I find myself deflecting their daggers with smiles, haughtily giving the impression that they have reason to be envious. I can’t blame them. He is traffic-stoppingly good looking and that body … I’m half expecting a scout from a modelling agency to approach us at any moment.

I don’t kid myself; I don’t belong with him. He should be with some supermodel Sax equivalent with everyone gushing about how beautiful their offspring will be. And it not just his looks. He’s one of those people who are gorgeous inside as well as out. Why else does my hand feels so comfortable in his, and not at all weird, given that we’re practically strangers? Oh my god! It occurs to me that someone might see me with Sax and report back to Dick. I doubt he’d believe them. I don’t do things like this, you see. I used to. I was the life and soul of the party in my teens and twenties, until marriage to Dick slowly sucked the party-goer out of me. I picture my husband … soon to be ex-husband … and the look on his face if he could see me now and have to suck in my cheeks to prevent myself from bursting out laughing.

From nowhere, the idea of rebelling against his stereotype of me blooms in my mind. I am still the same party-goer inside, surely. This stick-in-the-mud, stick-up-the-arse impression of me, isn’t who I truly am, who I was born to be. I’m almost tempted to suggest playing hooky and I’ve never once done that – never playing truant in school nor even thinking of pulling a sicky. Yet, as he laughs and urges me into a run when huge raindrops begin bouncing off the ground around us, I’m hit by an almost unsurmountable urge to turn and scurry in the opposite direction. Anywhere. Everywhere. Oh, I don’t know … somewhere … somewhere I can be free … be me.

My horizons have been so limited, shrinking until all I had was whatever was best for Dick. My dreams, my ambitions, my desires … all thrown into a neglected corner of my mind. I guess it’s time to pull them out, dust them off and reignite them while I still have chance. I’m in my thirties. I’m in my prime. The time to be rebellious is now!

But then reality kicks in. This is Sax’s first day in the job. I can’t expect him not to complete his first day. And I need my job to stand any chance of keeping my home, if Dick will play fair, or finding somewhere half decent if he won’t. Rebellious partygoer I might be inside but sadly, for now at least, my Miss Sensible impersonation will have to continue. Hmmm, what about outside office hours? Now, that’s a different story.

The rain is pelting so hard now that it stings my face. The wind is driving it towards us with force it’s threatening to take my breath and running in stilettos in a river of rain isn’t good – but for Sax, I’m sure I’d have gone base over apex by now. I see a bus approaching on the road next to us, Sax abruptly, and none too gently, grabs me and pulls me into the doorway of the newsagent who closed down months ago. I open my mouth to question him when, from the corner of my eye, I spy a wall of water advancing towards us. I press myself into Sax in an attempt to get further away from it, and instantly, his arms band around me, holding me firmly against his firm chest. The tsunami lands with a chorus of splats and splashes where we’d have been, had Sax not anticipated it and taken evasive action. As it is, only my legs and feet get sprayed by rainwater ricocheting off the pavement.

Sax throws back his head and laughs. We’re soaked to the skin, embracing in a disused shop’s doorway and he’s laughing like the gurgling drain a few feet away. I don’t see what the joke is. All I can think of is that our wet bodies are pressed so tightly together that I can feel his heartbeat in the wall of muscle that passes for his chest. And that our faces are inches apart. His dark hair is almost black now it’s wet and those eyes, the colour of Jack Daniels, are dancing delightedly. Then they lock onto mine and it’s like the DJ has pulled the plug. The dancing stops. Dead.

A drop of water falls from his long eyelashes and journeys over those chiselled cheekbones towards those full, soft lips. Without thinking, because quite frankly if I had time to think about it, I’d never do something like this, I push up onto my tiptoes and intercept it as it reaches the corner of his mouth. When I say intercept it, I mean catch it with my lips. And when I say catch, I mean kiss.

I feel his head jerk up in surprise. He smiles down at me as his arms let go of me. I land back on the soles of my feet with a defected thud. “Come on, Bella the Beautiful. We’re going to be late back,” he says, and then tugs me out of the doorway and over the remaining 500 metres to the office. I feel Shallot’s narrowed eyes on me before she looks to the clock on the back wall. I follow her eyes. We are indeed late. Almost five minutes to be exact. I hurry towards my desk and feel Shania’s questioning gaze. No doubt they’re both curious as to why we’re both turning up late. Together.

Once more, I get that urge to rebel. Instead of quickly settling behind my desk and setting about completing mine and Shallot’s work for the day, I head to the ladies’ and spend the best part of ten minutes drying my hair with the hand dryer and reapplying my makeup. I can’t believe I just tried to kiss a co-worker. How humiliating. But nowhere near as humiliating as his blatant rejection of me. How could I have read it so wrong? At least he was kind. He didn’t belittle me or make a fuss, he just brushed it off. For that, I’m thankful. I clearly need practice in the art of seduction.

Maybe I should ask Shania – she’s a shameless flirt and self-confessed partaker in one night stands. Although I doubt I could bring myself to confess my blatant propositioning of Sax, never mind his rebuttal. In a filthy, urine drenched doorway of an abandoned newsagents. Ooh classy, Bella. Way to go, girl. No wonder he wasn’t prepared for it. I stare at my reflection and attempt to convince myself that’s the only reason he pulled away. I’m not bad looking. I’m always told my natural light blonde hair is exactly the shade others pay hair salons to replicate. My skin is clear with a healthy glow, despite traces of my hangover in the vague shadows under my eyes. My lips are full, newly rouged thanks to my trusty Dior lipstick. Perfectly kissable. It’s his loss, right? My grey eyes stare back at me blankly, not stupid enough to fall for such an obvious ruse.

Predictably, I emerge to an office of observers. Shania calls over, asking for my help with something or another. I know she’s only after gossip so I ignore her, hitting up my bestie for a cappuccino before disappearing behind my monitor, keeping my head down for the entire afternoon. Whatever idea Shallot had wanted to run by me was forgotten in her attempts to dry hump Sax, well maybe dry humping is a bit of an exaggeration … but only a little. If she were a dog, she’d have been firmly attached to his leg, furiously twerking, for want of a better expression. At least my attempt to get his attention wasn’t witnessed by the whole office. Shallot clearly has no shame. Shameless Shallot.

My rebellious streak only extends as far as persuading me to shut down my computer at bang on five o’clock. I always work late, preferring to take a later train back to Chester. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune of travelling on Miseryrail during rush hour will testify that it is indeed a miserable experience from start to finish. But today, I need to get out of the office at the earliest opportunity, even if only to be squeezed into an overflowing rail carriage. At least I’ll be on my way home. I’ve felt increasingly restless since lunchtime. Although, I can’t explain why.

I guess it has to do with the stark reality that I have no friends to meet up with at lunchtime. Outside of work, I have precisely nothing to do. All I can see are long, empty winter evenings stretching out in front of me as I sit by the fire, getting slowly drunk. Alone. I can’t shake the feeling that life is passing me by. My life … just sliding quietly by. Yes, I’m sure that’s what it is. Stripped bare as Bella, not Bella and Richard – just Bella, what is there? Where are my friends? My social life? What’s my career? My hopes? My dreams? My bucket list? What do I have to show for my thirty-four year existence?

So many questions, but right now, the only one that is occupying my mind is what the hell do I do about it? I don’t even know where to start. Seeing Sax and company at lunchtime has triggered an itch that’s demanding to be scratched. But how? It’s like having an itch in the centre of your back that you can’t reach, no matter what you do. Maybe I need help. Maybe, I need a backscratcher.

I grab my coat and bid my colleagues goodnight as I hurry through the office towards the door, noticing how dark and gloomy it is, yet it’s only five o’clock. Where did summer go? And autumn? I hurry for James Street Station, desperate to get on the toy train that will take me to my princess castle. Every single twinkling tree I pass, every single decoration, and every mention of the word Christmas threatens to overwhelm me. I can’t face the thought of spending Christmas alone. Yes, I can go to my parents’ so technically, I won’t be alone but, for the first time in what … fifteen years? I’ll be spending the holidays as a single person, not part of a couple. I’m not sure I can get my head around that just yet. I’m not ready. All I want is the comfort and security of home that settles around me like a well-worn and expertly tailored cloak, the minute I set foot inside.

My mind is battling with the contradiction of wanting to be home but not wanting to be alone when I hear my name being called. I look back but see nobody I know, just commuters heading to the station on this dark, damp wintry evening. I’m reaching the conclusion that a pot of Ben and Jerry’s and a bottle of Chardonnay means I won’t actually be home alone when a hand lands on my shoulder.

If you’ve never found yourself in the middle of Liverpool, alone in darkness, you’ll probably not understand why I jump three feet into the air when I feel those strong fingers bite into my flesh. I jerk away, debating whether to run for the station or turn and fight my attacker – all in the space of one second flat. At it happens, all I do is secure my grip on my handbag and prepare for a struggle. My fight or flight survival instinct is clearly shagged. Oh well, at least part of me is getting some.

A vaguely familiar voice saying my name finally reaches my consciousness. I think it’s taken a second or two for my brain to process it, given that I’m preoccupied, thinking of nonsensical crap relating to my sex life.

“Bella, wait a second.”

Huh?

I spin around and come face to face with Sax, who’s breathing heavily. “Sax? What the hell? I thought you were after my handbag.”

His eyes flick to it. “I could … do … with one … that colour,” he pants, making me burst out laughing.

“Do you catch a train here?” I ask, nodding my head towards the station and silently pleading with him to say yes … to Chester. Maybe that would improve my boring journey home each night. It’s at this moment that I realise I spent most of my lunch hour with him and his friends, yet I didn’t learn anything about him. Nothing at all. Yet they learned so much about me. Immediately, I feel guilty. I totally hijacked his celebratory lunchtime drink with his friends.

He shakes his head, still dragging down air to his lungs. He’s obviously had to run to get here. Yet he doesn’t use the station so he isn’t running to catch a train … interesting. My curiosity is definitely piqued.

“About earlier,” he says, suddenly looking less confident than I’ve seen all day. “I think we should meet up later.” His voice is quiet, overly so … as though he’s nervous.

I don’t know which are rounder – my eyes or my open mouth. I stand here. Speechless. Blinking as my brain processes his words and what I think they mean. Is he hitting on me? If so, why? He’s gorgeous and young and … why me? What about working together? Does he think I’m easy? And will he respect me if I fall into his bed? Maybe he can sense how long it’s been since I got laid.

All these thoughts converge on my brain at high speed, without giving me a chance to answer one of them. So I keep standing here with my eyes and my mouth wide open as thoughts blast through my skull like high speed trains. I can’t stop them. I must look so stupid.

I can’t get my brain to function but my mouth has no such trouble.

“I’m sorry, Sax. I have plans. Another time, yeah?” I hear my voice say with such raw confidence and feigned disinterest I didn’t know I was capable of. I don’t know who is more shocked. Judging from the fact that his jaw has hit the pavement, I think it’s a dead heat. Perversely, this reaffirms to my brain that it was the right thing to do and it steps up a gear, forcing me to flash him my megawatt smile, say, “See you at the office in the morning,” and walk off into the station. My heart’s banging like a whore’s headboard by the time I get to my train. Great … the train is packed. It’s standing room only and I always end up crushed against someone who needs lessons in personal hygiene. There should be a law against holding your arm up if you have B.O. It’s an offence to my sensibilities at the very least.

All the way home, my head is humming with thoughts, it’s like tinnitus. I feel like turning to the guy standing next to me on the train – a perfect stranger – and saying, ‘what the actual fuck did I just do?’ just to get it out. To hopefully make the noise stop. Thankfully, I don’t. I think my brain is done with its ‘let’s make Bella look like a right twat’ campaign.

In fact, by the time the credits of Dirty Dancing are rolling and I’m rolling my arse into bed, I’ve convinced myself that it was a genius move and that Sax will be redoubling his seduction efforts tomorrow. Although, to be honest, I think the half a dozen glasses of Chardonnay might have had something to do with this newfound confidence. My last waking thought is that I’ll probably regret this in the morning.

Clearly, I have no idea what a master of understatement my last waking thought is …

 

 

The Morning After … coming soon!

 

 

 

Continued …

Mr Notmeltingmypants holds out his hand. “Hi Bella. I’m Saxon but you can call me Sax,” he says in a voice that could melt steel and breaks into a smile that a) looks genuine and b) could melt even the hardest resolution.

I take his hand and shake it firmly. Sax … an unusual name but it suits him. Short of calling him sex, I can’t think of anything better.

“Miles here says you and Shania might be kind enough to look after me today,” he says in that seductively smooth yet dangerously deep tone as he holds out his hand to Shania. I hear a squeak and there’s Shania looking like one of Jeff Dunham’s puppets … with his hand inserted!

“Are you okay, Shania?” Miles asks, probably wondering what on earth is going on with his staff today. I almost grin when I picture Shallot’s face when she walks in and sees our new addition – and Miles’ when he sees his daughter engage slut mode – which she will.

I hear another squeak and watch as Shania nods furiously, her cheeks looking like they could roast chestnuts. She scurries off to hang up her coat and take refuge behind her desk. I don’t believe it. Nothing and no one has ever had that effect on her before. She loves attention … she thrives on any kind of attention, yet once glance from Sax and she’s a squeaking mess.

I turn back and see that Miles has wandered off to his own desk. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” Sax says. “Are you going to show me the ropes?”

 ******

 Okay so he didn’t actually say that, that’s just what I heard in my head before I excused myself and hotfooted it to the loo to give myself another motivational talking to. I think it worked. I sidestep a puddle neatly and turn my eyes to the sky. I’ve dashed out of the office for some welcome fresh air and thank goodness, it stopped raining long enough for me to pop to the bank. Mind you, even if it had been raining buckets, it would  have been more pleasurable than spending lunchtime back there. Shania can’t keep her eyes off Saxon and keeps looking over to me, mouthing suggestive suggestions and making gratifying gestures … well, they would be gratifying if she were humping him and not the air – accompanied by a very realistic soundtrack of sex noises. It’s so blatant that I can’t believe he’s not seen her. I’ve spent the morning attempting to hide behind my monitor, breaking cover only to hit up the coffee machine.

That said, Shania’s shenanigans I can cope with. What I can’t cope with is Shallot. Shallot and Sax to be precise. Because – and let’s be honest here, although it was utterly expected, it doesn’t make it any less pathetic – when Shallot finally strolled through the door (just as Shania pronounced it time for elevenses), she proceeded to spend the last two hours shoving her youthful, perky tits in Sax’s face. Literally – the space between her shoulder blades has disappeared as she presses her shoulders back, making her four inches narrower and sending those four inches out front. She’d make a Barbie doll look normally proportioned.

It’s a wonder she’s not put her back out yet but I’m thinking it’s only a matter of time. And, if leaning across his desk with her clumsily convexed spine won’t do it, I’m sure that perching on the corner of his desk (balancing there no easy task given her determined boob-unbalance), crossing her legs then tucking the top foot behind her other leg so that her already mini skirt practically disappears, will do the trick. I have visions of her immobilised on a spinal board as the paramedics carry her out of the door. I know it makes me a bad person to take pleasure from visualising her face contorting in agony, but it’s only because she looks better like that than when pulling the contorted duck faces she’s been inflicting on Sax.

To be fair, our newest member of staff hasn’t flirted back. In fact, he hasn’t shown any kind of response at all. Now, either he’s into her but he’s playing it remarkably cool – especially wise since she’s the boss’s daughter; he’s not interested but he’s too polite to publicly humiliate her or too shrewd to knock back our second in command; or he hasn’t even got a clue that she’s coming onto him … and that’s just not possible since she’s not so much hitting on him as coming in like a wrecking ball with no less subtlety than a Miley Cyrus naked selfie.

I’m halfway back from the bank and I feel my feet instinctively slowing. I’m surprised they’re not instigating a full scale rebellion. I’m really not in the mood for being in work, even without the Shallot floorshow. It could be worse. That’s what I keep telling myself – whether I’m thinking of my professional life or my private life. It could be worse.

At least Dick is playing fair financially. I just checked with the bank and found that he hasn’t emptied our joint accounts. In fact, when the cashier turned the screen around to show me the account balances, everything looked so shockingly normal. Mr and Mrs with matching surnames, sitting together so innocently, like nothing had changed. A benign remainder of a malignant marriage.

The poor cashier didn’t know where to put herself when I asked if she had any advice for wives of cheating husbands in order to protect themselves when the marriage was over. She flapped and ummed and ahhed for at least ten seconds before abruptly turning on her heel to find her manager. I was quietly ushered into a meeting room where the manager politely tiptoed around my emotions as he explained that he couldn’t give advice but if I was worried about the accounts being emptied, he could open an account in my name alone and transfer whatever I wanted into it.

Call me stupid, but I declined his offer. Initially, it was purely because I didn’t want anything new with my sullied, tarnished married name on it. Dick’s name. It turns out that the bank can’t open a new account in my maiden name until I have officially changed it and have the documents to prove it so I’m still completely at Dick’s mercy when it comes to money. Walking back to the office, it occurs to me that it might not have looked good if I’d transferred a chunk of money out of one of our accounts. It could have prompted Dick to transfer the rest out, citing my move as provocation.

I can’t risk that. I’d be in real trouble if that happened. I can’t afford to run the house on my salary but I can’t face up the prospect of losing my home. I just have to hope that Dick is reasonable about it. I might be living in cloud cuckoo land but that’s where I’m staying where the house is concerned, until Dick shoots my cuckoo. He’s only in Dubai for a few more days so I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Fear starts gnawing at my subconscious. I’m walking past a bar, packed to the rafters with young professionals meeting up for lunch. I see their carefree smiling faces as their chatter and laughter filters into the cracks of my own smiling façade. My feet bring me to a stop and I stand here, gawping at people in my own age group having fun with friends and colleagues during their lunch break. It’s with a heavy heart that I realise I don’t even do this outside of the work day … and why? Because I have no friends. I’m a complete saddo. Loner. Loser. That’s me.

All because I put a man before everything else. A man who insisted we move from our three-bed detached new build in the East Midlands once he began climbing the career ladder. Oh, and I don’t mean we moved around the corner, or even to a ‘more desirable’ neighbourhood nearby. Oh no, Dick’s ambitious nature was more insecure than that. He’d wanted to move to London but I’d said no. He’d tried to get around me for weeks. But I wasn’t a city-dweller; I was a semi-rural kinda gal. The prospect of living in London scared me and it would take me further away from my family in North Yorkshire.

I’d burst into tears so many times in sheer frustration at his inability to understand that I could not live in London and, what’s worse, he wouldn’t listen to the fact that we didn’t need to. He travelled all over the world and, when in the country, he either worked from home or spent his time touching base with the various regional offices. Being based in the Midlands made sense to me. His decision to move was based on snobbery alone. He was expected to entertain other businessmen. His home needed to reflect his status, he’d insisted. As soon as he finally (and grudgingly) accepted that I wouldn’t move to London, Dick spent hours one weekend, researching the most desirable locations in England. I had the man I fell in love with back, for a while at least – the man who put me first. I’d blindly ignored the fact that I’d had to fight tooth and nail for it … and that he bitterly resented it.

The closest location he could stomach was St Albans. But he made it clear he’d rather Winchester, Chichester or Brighton … all prestigious locations but all too difficult for me to visit my family given that – and this was the part he could not understand – he was out of the country more than he was in it. I would be left in a strange place. Alone. Abandoned. And that, for a wife who loved her husband dearly and missed him more than she could verbalise was difficult enough to bear when within reach of her family and with a huge circle of friends on her doorstep. The prospect of starting over, having no job, no friends and being isolated from my family was not a desirable one when he was set to travel at least as much as before.

We were all set to move to Cambridge when one of his snooty colleagues closed on a house (I say house, stately home was more like it) in the area that we couldn’t possibly compete with. The place we’d lined up was a quarter of the size with a less prestigious postcode but I loved it. Once Dick learned of the discrepancy between the two, that was the end of that. The only other ‘befitting’ locations were all in the South East and he would not contemplate anywhere else. I could have put my foot down but I loved him. I wanted him to succeed. I wanted him to be happy. He’d compromised on London so it was my turn to compromise.

Then, a random stroke of genius (in reality, a well-heeled old dear with impeccable social graces and a dated yet opulent wardrobe who was dining at a table next to ours one night) had loudly grandiloquently proclaimed the virtues of residing in Alderley Edge, Cheshire. I could have kissed her when I saw Dick’s ears prick up as she mentioned phrases such as ‘Millionaire’s Row’, ‘£2 million average property price’ and … the absolute killer line ‘so exclusive that google maps are refused access’. He was on rightmove before bedtime. I was over the moon. I’d be closer to my family than I’d been since leaving for Uni. My parents were ecstatic at the prospect of having me so close and, what’s more, the more I researched it, the more I loved Cheshire. I’d have to find another job but the area was perfect for that since transport links are so good. I was confident of finding work in the nearby towns or even in Manchester. I was so buoyed. Things were perfect between Dick and I, excepting his working away, but being close to my family would alleviate my concerns about starting over somewhere new and being alone so much.

However, just as house hunting commenced, a particularly pompous colleague magniloquently mocked the location because of its ‘pitiful proximity to Manchester Airport’ and its penchant for attracting ‘footballers and their pejorative entourages’, during cocktails before a charity gala dinner. From the crumbling fragments of my idea location, I grabbed anything the estate agents had in the whole of Cheshire, hoping against hope that it had another Millionaire’s Row. It didn’t. But, by some weird twist of fate, an estate agent sent out the wrong particulars and so, into our heads, and ultimately our hands, fell a beautiful riverside property in the heart of Chester.

Dick had taken some persuading, for the property needed a complete renovation and wasn’t in his ‘preferred prestigious location’ list but I managed to procure some photographs of the imposing Victorian property in its heyday, proudly radiating its former glory from the crumpled paper. His interest was piqued enough to check out the estate agent’s claims about the allegedly prestigious location and then, when validated, he insisted upon viewing the property with a surveyor, architect and interior designer – all of whom fell in love with the place and enthused significantly to have Dick putting in an offer to the bemused estate agent before the viewing was over.

A long, sweeping driveway sitting behind electric gates and tall walls kept the impressive façade in seclusion from prying eyes. High ceilings, intricate mouldings, magnificent fireplaces, four huge reception rooms, two kitchens, five bedrooms with three bathrooms … all sprawled across four floors and let’s not forget the beautiful patio and manicured sloping gardens that gently roll down to the river bank (with exclusive mooring rights). Overlooking the river and farmland to the rear, whilst resting practically in the shade of the open air theatre of Grosvenor Park at the front, it is ideally positioned – to impress colleagues (him), to not feel isolated when alone and to commute easily for work (me).

I love it – I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it in it’s near dilapidated state. Yes, it’s too big for a couple on their own and definitely for someone living alone, as it often felt since I spent most of my time their alone. From the moment we moved in, once the ‘no expense spared’ renovations were complete, it made me feel like the heroine of a romantic novel or the lead in a black and white movie from the golden age of film. When Dick was away and I was bored, I’d dress up and sashay down the wrought iron spiral staircase from the balcony as though I were Vivienne Leigh playing Scarlett O’Hara. A stupid romantic notion, underlined by the fact that the only thing that’s gone with the wind is my marriage.

At least Rhett Butler loved Scarlet and did all he could to win her heart. Scarlet was the fool who couldn’t see what she had, always wanting more. If I’d behaved like she did, I’d deserve to be alone. But no, Dick was the one who decided I wasn’t enough for him. He was the one who gave up on our marriage when he decided to screw around outside of it, although I was at home, craving his attention. Craving his touch. I guess, in the cold light of day, our marriage was no more sincere than Scarlett and Rhett’s.

Dick was the sole reason I left my wonderful circle of friends, my hobbies, my entire social life behind. And for what? To fulfil my role as his dutiful wife. The perfect hostess in the perfect house.

The wind beneath his wings.

More like the doormat beneath his feet.

I know he’ll fight me over the house eventually and I’ll most likely lose it. There’s no way I can afford to buy him out, or even cover the mortgage repayments on my own. But it just feels so unfair. Because he earns more than me, does that mean he can behave anyway he likes with no regard to my feelings or my needs? Should I suffer because he can’t keep little dick in his pants? Because he broke his marriage vows? My hands clench at my sides and I grit my teeth in grim determination, as my vision leaves the past and comes back into focus. I almost jump out of my skin when I see a pair of eyes, just inches from the glass, staring into mine.

I’d drifted off, lost in my own pitiful problems, but to any observers, it must look like I was gawping inside the bar like some weirdo. Humiliation crawls up my cheeks, bathing them in a scarlet glow that I swear I can see reflected back at me as bold as the neon bar sign over the door. I turn away quickly, but my brain screams of recognition and attempts to get my attention. I glance back, even as my feet start forward then almost instantly freeze, meaning that I almost go sprawling arse over tit but thankfully, an old boy, about eighty, grabs my arm until I’m steady. I’m still gawping at the bar window, even as I croak my thanks. Sax is there with a group of what appear to be his friends. He’s almost pressed up against the glass, smiling at me and gesturing for me to go inside.

Balance restored, I attempt to get control of my self-respect. Not an easy feat, given my recent impressions of a nine carat imbecile. I blink, making sure it’s him. Of course it would be … the hottest guy I’ve seen in … well, forever, and he’s there to witness me making a fool of myself.  Oh god. What if he thinks I was spying on him … stalking him? Why can’t the pavement just open up and swallow me whole? I should have made today a duvet day. I should have gorged myself on chocolate cake and ice-cream. I should have been pissed by 11am. I should have- I jump again as Sax taps on the glass, once more bringing me back to the here and now. “Come in,” he mouths, beckoning with his finger and looking pleased to see me – not shit scared, like he would be if he really did think I was stalking him. I shake my head and smile my thanks before turning away but I’ve only taken half a dozen steps before he’s there.

“What’s the matter, sad girl?” he says, almost making me laugh – I mean, girl? At my age? What stops me is that he looks genuinely concerned – and sincerity looks good on him. Probably not as good as devilment. Or passion. Or …

He cocks his head as I smirk outwardly while inwardly considering what his ‘sex face’ would look like. I shake my head again. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Go back and enjoy the rest of your lunch break. I’d better get back to the office. See you later.”

He reaches out and puts his hands on my shoulders. “And leave a damsel in distress? No way. If you go back, I’m coming with you.”

When I open my mouth to protest, he gives my shoulders the slightest shake. “No arguments, Bella the blue. Either come in and allow my good friends to cheer you up as we celebrate the first day of my new job, or, if you insist upon returning to that office and allowing that creature to torture me for longer than she has to, no matter that my friends have all made the effort to come here for me on my big day, then I shall insist upon going back to the office with you.”

His eyes are dancing with fun and mischief but again, his sincerity shines through. How can I tear him away from his friends? And I have no doubt that he would indeed walk out on them if I refused. I want to shake my head but, at the same time, I can’t deny how good it feels that someone wants to include me in their revelry. The temptation to chill in a bar during my lunch hour is surprisingly great. It feels naughty to even consider it … like passing notes in high school. Not something Dick’s perfect wife would do. That thought strikes me like a bolt of lightning, as my brain goes ding ding ding like fruit machine when someone’s hit the jackpot.

“Come on sad girl,” he says, apparently taking my hesitation as agreement since he’s put his arm around me and is steering me towards the door. “Time to turn that frown upside down.” He laughs good naturedly as I do indeed frown at his use of that cringey phrase.

He pushes open the door and the joviality assaults my ears before he ushers me forward and I find myself under the intense scrutiny of a load of immaculately groomed twenty-somethings. As Sax makes the introductions, I’m pulling my hair across in a sweeping fringe a la Justin Bieber, to hide my unwaxed eyebrows. I know from catching my reflection in the window that I’m not looking my best. I feel naked. I feel judged. I feel old.

What the hell have I just done?

 

What has Bella let herself in for? Read Part Four ‘Sax Appeal‘ to find out.

On my website, there's a new fictional blog. Follow newly single, thirty-something Bella as she explores singledom.

A serialised lighthearted romcom from yours truly available for free.

The first couple of installments are up - more coming very soon.

http://jdchase.co.uk/sax/

JD xx

I’ve never been so glad to get off a train in all my life – even if it looks like it’s about to pee it down. I actually thought I was going to be sick back there. I’m suffering from the worst hangover this decade has seen and, as if being rocked and jolted every thirty seconds when the train stopped and started isn’t bad enough, some dozy mare in my carriage decided to paint her nails. I spent the entire journey, from Chester to Liverpool, glaring at her – as did the whole carriage, but she was either completely wrapped up in her task (and probably herself – I mean, who paints their nails on public transport?) or she could feel the animosity and was deliberately avoiding looking up into the sea of disapproval. I waited for someone to say something, since I dare not open my mouth for fear of losing the contents of my stomach. But no, I was obviously among true, ‘stiff upper lip, grin and bear it’ Brits. It was like a game of stationary charades or something, where everyone had to convey the title of a book with their expression alone. The whole carriage was showing her Stephen King’s Misery but she never looked up, not once. If she had, we’d all probably have hastily looked away, too embarrassed to disapprove to her face, but more than happy to voice disapproval silently to her back. A few even managed to huff and puff a few times – quite forthright behaviour for upstanding residents of Chester.

 Speaking of misery, today is my first day in the office since my split with Richard … or Dick as I’ve taken to calling him. He’d be a dick now, even if his name was … I don’t know – Jeremy. But Dick by name, and dick by nature it is. I’m only hoping that the new guy starting today will have all the attention focused on him, and I won’t have to admit that my marriage is over and divulge all the sordid details. I’ve had a word with my emotions and they’ve agreed to play ball. I’ve coached them into not bursting into tears or doing something stupid like hiring a PI to find out just how many women Dick has screwed during our marriage or calling the bank and emptying our joint accounts. These are obviously not things that I’d seriously consider doing … ever – even after copious amounts of wine, only to find that it was a Sunday and nobody was answering the phones because the offices were empty.

 Actually, I’d better make sure he doesn’t do it either … I could be completely penniless without even realising it. Shit. That’s my lunchtime accounted for then. Great. But I guess I have to talk to the bank at some point. Just like I’ll have to speak to all sorts of people to tell them what’s happening, to change back to my maiden name and to get some financial advice.

 I reach my place of work just as the first drops of rain begin to fall. Mercifully, Miles, my boss and founder of Miles Onions Entertainment Agency, has dragged his backside out of bed on time today and the office is unlocked. You wouldn’t believe how often he’s late. His tardiness beaten only by the fruit of his loins, his darling daughter, Charlotte … or Shallot as I call her, inside my head – a lot, or aloud – sometimes, behind her back, obviously. It’s quite fitting that Mild Onion (as I sometimes think of him) produced a shallot. Or that her mother is Sophia … I know what you’re thinking … Spanish Onion, right? That’s exactly what I thought! Her name may be of Spanish origin but Shallot’s mother is definitely English – a tragic loss to … well, my sense of humour, if nothing else.

 “Morning, Miles,” I trill, more cheerfully than I feel as I swing by my best friend, Nespresso, and set about my most important task of the day. Switch flicked, cup placed, button pressed and all systems are go.

 “Morning, Bella,” he says. “Good weekend?”

 Crap. I plaster a smile on my face and nod enthusiastically, turning back to the coffee machine when I feel tears pricking my eyes, the treacherous swines. “You?” I manage as I talk the tears down from throwing themselves off the ledge of my lower lids.

 “Not bad. Not bad,” he says and I think I’m spared, but no. It gets worse. “Before I forget, Charlotte wants to go over a fabulous idea she’s had with you at some point today, if you’re not too busy.”

Tears safely rescued and restrained, I roll my eyes as I check on the progress of my first cup of the day (here), my fourth overall (including home and rail stations). If Shallot insists on going over some hair-brained scheme (and it stands a good chance, since every other idea that’s had the misfortune of finding its way out of her mouth has been a load of tripe) then I’d better order more coffee supplies. I have a inkling that the week’s worth currently sitting inside the stock cupboard might be gone by five o’clock.

 I turn, cappuccino in hand and give him my mega-watt smile, perfected in my former life as the ‘perfect’ wife of a successful businessman. “I’m always too busy, Miles. You don’t pay me to sit around, do you? But if Sha-arlotte needs some help with her idea, then I’ll skip my breaks or something. Anything to keep Charlotte happy.”

 “Brilliant,” he says, clapping his hands together and grinning agreeably before ambling back to his desk and leaving me to seek the sanctuary of mine.

 Shallot can kiss my arse today. I’m really not in the mood. I’m not in the mood for anything, truth be told. Well, unless you count shoving my legs back into my jammies, laying on my sumptuous couch and watching films all day with generous helpings of popcorn. Who am I kidding? Copious amounts of cake and wine … and chocolate … maybe chocolate cake … actually, is there such a thing as chocolate wine? If not, there should be.

 A shrill, vaguely musical voice singing Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas assaults my ears. Even ignoring the fact that it’s only the twelfth of  November and that I’ve got the hangover from hell, I’m definitely not in the mood for that. Or the person it’s attached to. Don’t get me wrong, Shania is often the highlight of my work day with her colourful personality and inflated belief in her own talents, not least her singing ability. She will often sing at you rather than talk to you and, if that’s not bad enough, she’s loud. Very loud. When people say she’s got a right set of lungs on her, she takes it as a compliment. They’re most likely tactfully referring to the fact that their ears are now bleeding. It’s immensely entertaining when she’s doing it to someone else, especially some poor celeb on the other end of the phone, but not so much if she’s inflicting it on you. She’s not awfully perceptive, nor does she have much tact and as for her brain to mouth filter … let’s just say that while mine malfunctions on a regular basis, hers isn’t so much broken as non-existent. She is harmless though – eardrum damage excepted.

 The former *cough* professional *cough* singer is our telephone booking agent … well, I guess she’s now the senior booking agent, since a new guy is supposedly starting today to replace Shallot after she convinced her adoring, clueless (where she’s concerned) father to promote her from booking agent to the dizzying heights of company secretary, with a salary commensurate with such a prestigious position. The fact that I perform all the duties associated with that role in my own role as office administrator, on a much lower salary, is neither here nor there.

 “Good morning,” I call over, a blatant yet, I suspect utterly futile, attempt at getting her to stop singing, even if just for one minute so I can enjoy my coffee.

 BIG MISTAKE!

 Shania breaks into the ‘Good Morning’ routine from Singin’ in the Rain – and when I say routine, I mean the whole shebang. She comes tap (allegedly) dancing (in stilettos) across the office and I swear if we had a sofa, she’d be standing on the back, upturning it like Debbie Reynolds and Co did in the film. As it is, I get the coat and hat part of the routine acted out as she belts out the words in her own inimitable fashion. It’s quite a sight, considering she’s wearing purple heels, a bright orange and lime green floral patterned dress that’s fighting with the cerise pink of her hair and the electric blue of her coat. If it’s one thing Shania can’t bear, it’s not being noticed.

 All that swirling coloured motion is making me feel even more nauseous and, even if it had been a good morning, it would have taken a turn for the worse after Shania’s psychedelic-like floorshow. I hastily look away before she puts me off my coffee completely. Across the other side of the office, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights … the spectacle of Shania in full flow cannot compete with the sight over near the door. Miles is enthusiastically shaking the hand of a god. No, not just a god. A sex god. Easily six feet tall, lean yet firmly muscular, dark, oozing charisma – despite the fact that he’s thirty feet away and not looking in my direction.  He is totally – and, believe me I cannot overestimate this – freaking gorgeous. The fact that my mouth has gone dry – will testify to that. All bodily fluids seem to have gone south – my knickers will testify to that.

 Please tell me this is the new guy. Oh, the things he could do to me …

I almost blush when I realise what’s going through my mind … especially when I don’t try to stop those naughty thoughts. This is so not me. Until a couple of days ago, I was a happily married woman, having been with Dick since I was nineteen. I never looked at other men. Never. I barely had a dirty thought about any celebrity males – actors, musicians … nothing. I was too wrapped up in my loving adoration of my husband. Maybe that’s what this is … my new found freedom, going to my head and making me think inappropriate thoughts. Only it’s not just my brain that’s been caught on the hop. In fact, as Miles shows him to the desk in front of, and positioned almost adjacent to mine, my vagina’s practically doing somersaults in delight. My vagina! The same vagina that has been lying dormant, not having seen action in months, unless you count my own frustrated bean-flicking. In hindsight, I’ll bet the start of my drought coincides exactly with when Big Dick began putting little dick to use elsewhere. At least I bloody well I hope it does … the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

 Urgh! That’s almost enough to put me off sex for life. Or maybe not! Oh my god. He’s looking at me. Holy spunktrumpet, he’s tilting his head slightly as if he’d rather be over talking to me than having Miles jabbering on at him. That head tilt is adorable … forget that, it’s hot … the way he’s angled his head away from Miles to look at me means he’s almost peering out from under those long eyelashes. Okay, so I can’t see them but I know they’re long – of course they are, this man is visual perfection. The voice of reason in the back of my head is stamping her feet and shouting ‘abort … abort’ through a loudhailer. Men are nothing but using wankers. No matter how attractive the packaging, they’re all the same underneath.

 The tip of his tongue swipes across his bottom lip and ‘poof’ just like that, those sensible thoughts go up in smoke. I argue with that little voice, telling it that you don’t have to get involved with a man to enjoy him. You can look. Admire. Even make use of … maybe. I’ve never had a one-night stand. Maybe I don’t know what I’m missing. He nods at something Miles says but he’s still looking at me. Oh my god. That smile! If mine is a megawatt, his is a gigawatt. He looks younger … I’d have said he was mid-thirties but smiling like that, he loses ten years easily.

 Suddenly his expression is playful … as though he’s enjoying what he’s seeing. I’m tempted to be playful in return. I over to him, idly twirling the ends of my hair around my finger thinking how I could happily roll over for him to tickle my tummy … or anywhere else he might like to caress me with those long, lean, capable looking fingers.

 Oh shit. I’m too busy perving over his fingers to realise that he’s walking this way with Miles. I look up to his face: he’s got a sparkle in his eye and a smile is flirting with his mouth. I want to be that smile so badly. I want to flirt with that mouth … I want to be touching that mouth … I want-

 “Bella, are you alright? … Bella?”

 “Hmm? What? Oh god. Yes. Yes, I am, Miles. Just … distracted. Sorry.”

 It’s quiet and I realise that everyone is looking at me. Everyone. Even Shania, having finally ended her bloody awful rendition of Good Morning. I’m racking my brain, desperately trying to force it to tell me what I’ve missed, for surely I missed something that was said for them all to be staring at me. Are they waiting for my reply to something? Did I speak my thoughts about the new guy out loud?

 Then it hits me … well, maybe not what I missed just then, but something far more embarrassing that I missed … or misinterpreted. Mr Meltmypants wasn’t smiling playfully at me – he was watching Shania’s performance immediately behind me. Of course he was – it was quite a sight, after all. I don’t know whether I’m more annoyed at myself for being so foolish and for blushing beetroot red and making them all frown at me even more as I struggle with the mortifying revelation, or whether I’m annoyed with him for not reserving those smiles for me. I vow to dislike Mr Notmeltingmypants and steer well clear of the self-obsessed ladies’ man, which he obviously is.

 No evidence, you say? I don’t need any. I can just tell, and I don’t need any more crap in my life. Or any melted pants. The only S.O.B. in my life is going to be my silicone orgasm bringer that was a secret Santa present from Shania last Christmas. A joke present that delivers very serious pleasure.

 I straighten up and fold my arms across my chest in a classic defensive stance. I take a reaffirming breath … in through the nose and … ooh, he smells divine. Whatever aftershave he’s wearing, it suits him. In fact, it could have been custom made just for him … unless he emits nothing but natural pheromones, because it’s wrapping itself around my senses and hauling me in as surely as his exceptional good looks and fit body.

 Focus, Bella. This is a workplace, not a singles bar, for heaven’s sake. The only thing on my mind should be the fact that my coffee’s going cold and that I have a ‘to do’ list that fills two sides of A4, thanks to Shallot being so useless.

 That’s it. I’m arming myself with a virtual chastity belt made of steel and activating my inner Ice Queen, totally immune to his hotness … and the heat he effortlessly summons inside me. Whatever he throws my way, I’m going to deflect casually. It’ll be easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

 A breeze.

 Sax who?

 See?  Piece of cake.

 

Read Part Three ‘Upon Reflection‘