Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (52 page)

Audrey hadn’t switched on the lights. Instead she sat stiffly on the edge of her armchair, her coat still on, her handbag still looped over her shoulder. It was four in the morning.

Now that she’d finally sat down her body was consumed with tiredness. She was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, but she wouldn’t let herself relax into the chair’s familiar folds. She couldn’t. She didn’t deserve a shred of comfort, not even from a three-piece suite. Her feet ached as if they were on fire and her heel throbbed as though it were clamped in a pit bull’s teeth. But the physical pains were the least of it. The two daggers in her heart were worse. And the second one she’d put there herself. She’d stabbed herself in her cold, black heart when she’d kicked her most precious friend in the world.

She replayed the vision of Pickles lying broken on the vet’s examining table. Her best friend; her trusting, purring companion. Pickles, who would curl up on her lap – in this very chair – and sit with her evening upon evening as she stroked his fur and rubbed his ears.

Every time Audrey remembered Pickles’s leg, snapped
and sticking out, she felt a new flush of shame. But whenever the image receded it would be replaced by another horrible vision: of John taking Alice’s hand, of Alice’s earring falling against honeyed skin, of John moving forward to kiss her; and Audrey would feel a new lurch of despair.

What on earth was she supposed to do when the darkness faded and the new day started?

She needed to think. She needed to work out a plan, to see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage of the last twenty-four hours.

Pickles, she’d been assured, would make a complete recovery. But it was hardly the point. He’d never trust her again. She didn’t deserve his trust. She didn’t deserve him.

But still, he
would
recover, and in the darkness of her living room Audrey vowed to be a better owner, a more patient friend. She’d cook him real dinners, rather than just spoon them out of a tin. She’d give him real cuddles, not half-hearted asides while she watched TV. She’d let him sleep in the middle of her bed, rather than inch him towards the wall with her knee.

Her own heart, however, wouldn’t be as resilient. It would never recover from the fatal injury done by John and Alice. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? And how was she going to sit in the same office as Alice and pretend nothing had happened? To know that Alice had won the heart of the man she’d loved –
she’d loved
– for eleven years?

But, Audrey thought with new-found penitence, maybe if she hadn’t been so blinkered by her feelings . . . ? If she hadn’t been so deluded by what she’d imagined, she’d
fantasized
, John was thinking about her? She’d been a fool, she scolded herself. An old, fat fool. Because that’s what she was. Old and fat and foolish. Of course John couldn’t have loved her. What was there to love?

And then there was the damage to her reputation too. She could barely remember as far back as the DIPS meeting. All she could remember was Sheryl calling for her disbarment. They all thought she was a liar. And worse,
a frequenter of prostitutes
. She could imagine what they were all thinking. She’d have jumped to the same conclusions too. Audrey felt her cheeks flush again in the dark.

How could she face them – any of them? John, Alice, Sheryl, Ernie, Barry Chambers, Wendy Arthur? Bianca and Cassandra? Pickles? How could she face any of the people in her life again?

And how was she ever going to do anything without the dream of having John?

But if this dreadful day had shown her anything, it had shown her that she needed to change. Become a better person. A
nicer
person. John wasn’t hers.

John wasn’t hers.

Around her the room’s inky blackness started to turn to fuzzy purple, and small sounds of life began to emanate from the street. Audrey squinted at the clock on her old VCR machine. There was no point in going to bed. In an hour she’d put on a fresh outfit, paint on a new face and get the 119 bus to the office as though her world hadn’t really imploded overnight. Today was the first day of her new life: a kinder life. And the sooner she went to work,
the sooner she’d be able to bring home Pickles. They’d said she’d be able to collect him tomorrow evening, and it was already the start of tomorrow.

There was just the small matter of the day to get through first.

Lou strode defiantly past the morning commuters, cutting through their ranks and ignoring their disapproving glances. Nothing was going to delay her from her mission, which was to get home as fast as humanly possible.

She wanted nothing more than to shut her front door behind her, rip off last night’s clothes and wipe away her make-up. Her outfit – so sexy yesterday – now itched toxically against her skin. But if she let herself imagine how good it would be to climb into a scalding hot bath she’d probably start crying now. And that absolutely wasn’t going to happen.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a businesswoman staring at her with open distaste, no doubt comparing Lou’s leather mini and fishnets with her own A-line and triple-digit deniers. Lou eyeballed her squarely and then slowly raised her middle finger. As the woman looked away in pink-cheeked alarm Lou felt a savage pleasure. She hadn’t given anyone the finger in years!

Suddenly she saw her bus and forced her four-inch stilettos into an awkward sprint towards the stop. She
clambered on board, ignored the sea of disapproving eyes that greeted her and marched to an empty seat. As the bus pulled away she calculated how many minutes it would be until home.

Last night her plan had seemed perfect. As predicted, Simon had become a regular. He’d been hard work, but bit by bit Lou had discovered he was a middle-ranking manager who liked spy thrillers, cinema and cider. He visited his parents every month, his fingernails were always clean, and – most importantly – he was single. Operation Fornication-with-Mr-Nice-Guy was all systems go! She’d soon have Kate eating her words. Or she would if she ever spoke to Kate again.

And besides, despite her original motives she was beginning to like Simon. He was different; nice. He didn’t drink himself senseless or ogle every woman who came into the bar. He was quiet and clever and asked Lou questions about herself. Maybe Kate was on to something with this ‘proper boyfriend’ malarkey. Maybe it
would
be nice to have Simon ask her about her day when she got in at night; pour her a glass of wine; introduce her to his mother. Why couldn’t that happen to her, just this once? Why shouldn’t the nice boy want her to be his girlfriend?

After several weeks of small talk Lou decided the verbal foreplay was over. She was going to make her strike.

She’d picked her outfit with extra care. Simon wasn’t like normal men; he was shy, unassuming. He didn’t seem to notice Lou’s double entendres. Lou needed to spell things out, make sure there was no ambiguity. So she stated her
intentions as clearly as she could. She wore her leather mini, fishnets and heels.

From the moment Simon entered the bar the regulars were ignored, excuses were made to swing by his table and she’d even dipped into her own purse to buy him pints when it looked like he might be leaving. Eventually, as the night drew to a close and the bar started emptying, she managed to corner him.

‘Fancy a lock-in?’

‘Um, well. I think I’ve had enough,’ he answered tipsily.

‘It’s just that my regular taxi driver rang to say he can’t pick me up tonight,’ Lou lied. ‘Would you mind walking me to the rank after my shift?’

‘Ah.’ Simon stalled reluctantly. Lou could tell he was fighting the urge to look at his watch. But his gentlemanly nature got the better of him. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

Round one to her. He was going to be putty in her hands.

She deliberately led him to the worst taxi rank in the city centre, the one with the longest queues and fewest cabs. After twenty minutes of fruitless waiting she turned to a yawning Simon and said:

‘This isn’t going to work. I’ll just crash on your sofa instead.’

Simon choked. Before he could reply Lou looped her arm in his and steered him away from the rank.

‘Come on.’ She snuggled up to him. ‘I’m freezing. Let’s get walking.’

‘Do you want my . . . ?’ Simon politely offered his jacket.

‘There’s no point in both of us getting cold. Why don’t you just put your arm around me instead?’

Obediently, Simon laid his arm stiffly around her shoulders and they walked awkwardly back to his flat.

Lou was banking on Simon being – underneath it all – as red-blooded as any other man. When they arrived at his flat (a loft apartment on the river; the kind Kate would die for her man to have) Lou led him straight to the bedroom. She was going to win him as a boyfriend. She was going to bring him to his knees and make him beg for more. She was going to ride him like a Grand National stallion. She was going to fuck him to within an inch of his middle-class life.

After an hour of X-rated foreplay during which Lou removed everything but her heels and leather mini, she finally decided he’d been teased enough. Besides, he was looking tired and she didn’t want him falling asleep. So she pulled herself onto all fours, hitched up her skirt and begged him to take her from behind. As he timidly entered her, careful not to hurt her, she urged him to spank her – hard – on the backside. When his hand flip-flopped limply on the side of her hip with all the sexual aggression of custard she showed him what she meant, twisting her own hand into position and bringing it forcefully down onto her buttocks with an ear-popping crack.

The night wore on and still Lou wouldn’t let Simon rest. She remembered reading that cults brainwashed their victims by denying them sleep and decided this was a good strategy. She pulled out her arsenal of tricks – moaning, writhing and pleading with him to take her harder, treat her rougher, be as wild as he wanted to be. Her throat ached
from all the gasps of ecstasy. She lost count of how many orgasms she faked.

And Simon had enjoyed it. Hadn’t he? OK, so he hadn’t been as energetic as the taxi driver or as filthy as Tony. He’d seemed a bit embarrassed by her porn-movie patter and top-shelf positions. But he’d gone along with it. He hadn’t said no. He’d come, for God’s sake!

Yet still . . .

On the back seat of the 138 bus Lou winced as she remembered the mildness of his responses. He’d hardly thrown himself into it. He’d gone along with everything, nothing more. And when she’d finally let them finish he’d pulled the blanket right up to his neck, wished her an embarrassed goodnight and slept on the furthest edge of the bed.

Lou pulled her eyes from the bus window and looked into her lap in dawning realization. He hadn’t enjoyed it. She’d just backed him into a corner and he’d been too polite to say no. She felt her cheeks sting. And then it caught her eye: a small, crusty patch of white on her leather skirt; an incriminating neon light advertising last night’s behaviour. With a flush of shame she scratched the mockery that was Simon’s dried semen off her skirt and brushed it discreetly onto the floor.

Eventually the bus lurched into her road. Lou lunged for the bell.