The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story (20 page)

Of course, nothing is ever simple.

I got busy calling in favours. I bought our crime reporter
an epic lunch and turned his head with tales (OK, optimistic lies) of glittering celebrities, goodie bags and – of course – a complimentary bar, to get him to go to the book launch for me. I had a lunchtime eyebrow wax and bought some new undies - I figured I had to pull something hotter out of the bag than the pair I’d given James if things were going to go the way I hoped. It felt a bit presumptuous and rather girlie, but I couldn’t stop myself indulging. For the first time in a long time I felt like this was a date – not just hanging out with a friend with additional naughty fun, but a date, even, maybe, the start of an actual honest-to-goodness relationship. It was an odd feeling, discombobulating but lovely. Hell, I even pondered buying a new dress, since everything else non-trouser related in my wardrobe had been worn at weddings or christenings over the last few years and was probably the wrong side of garden party chic. In the end, I decided against it. I felt out of my comfort zone enough before throwing in worrying about whether curling my legs under myself on a chair was accidentally flashing more than I intended. I was sorted. Ready. I had the kind of butterflies that meant the afternoon was going to be part anticipation, part torture. And the waiting was kind of fun. I returned from lunch with a spring in my step, wishing away my afternoon.

Of course, while I’d been away all hell and broken loose.

As a relative newcomer to the newsroom I wasn’t getting a great many lead stories yet. I understood why – a mixture of finding my feet on the patch and waiting for the news editors to feel confident giving me something
meaty that wouldn’t land them a load of extra work in rewriting, paired with the fact that all the other reporters were keen to protect their own contacts and ongoing stories. I didn’t feel grumpy about it as I knew that I had to pay my dues a little while people got to know me, so instead I quietly took all the leads I was given, researching and then writing them up as well as I could, starting the process of building my own contact book once more, so I could bring in my own stories.

Little did I realize the little work I’d had a chance to do on that score was about to pay inconvenient dividends.

As I shuffled back to my desk Ian, the news editor, caught my eye and waved me over. My eyes flicked to the clock as I moved towards him, checking I hadn’t earned myself a bollocking by taking too long for lunch. I was OK. I waited for him to finish his call. He hung up.

‘Hey. Glad you’re back. We need you to head out again.’

What? Balls. Although actually, this wasn’t a bad thing, I could slope off home afterwards if I got what I needed early. Ever the optimist.

‘The staff at St Luke’s are revolting.’

I blinked, confused. ‘What?’

‘St Luke’s primary. There’s some kind of issue with a kid being excluded. The local authority’s involved, so we have to be careful how we tread, but someone’s called in saying there’s a letter going round, put out by the parents, accusing several teachers of being overzealous in disciplining kids in their classes. Accusations of racism. Apparently the staff are furious and several teachers are threatening legal action. There could be a walk out.’

My mind was already whirring with possibilities as he spoke. ‘Do we know who called?’

‘No, they wanted to stay anonymous, didn’t want to be quoted.’

‘OK, could either be a parent, or a teacher wanting to push the council’s hand.’

Ian smiled. ‘I’ll let you sweat that stuff – it’s why we pay you the mediocre bucks. But the councillor you interviewed last week on library cuts is a governor there. I thought you might be able to get him to talk, even off the record.’

I nodded. ‘I’ll call him before I go, but if I head out now I can go see the headmistress face to face too, and still be around for any obvious parental rabble rousing at home time.’

He nodded. ‘All I need is for you to get a feel for what’s happening. Stand it up first, then we can decide how big it is. Call me when you know roughly what it’ll make.’

I headed out, stopping briefly by my desk to grab the number of my contact. My lazy afternoon was a distant hope, although the adrenaline was also starting to course through me at the prospect of trying to figure out what was going on, especially with the clock ticking.

In hindsight, I should have texted James early to warn him that I might be running late. But until I knew how much work I was signed up for it didn’t seem worth causing extra faff. By the time I’d spoken to the headmistress – unhelpful and understandably grumpy – and some of the mothers waiting at the school gate, it was clear this was going to make something, and I’d need to go back to
the office to write it up. Sitting outside the councillor’s house in my car at half five, I sent James a text. Suffice to say I wasn’t going to get to his for 7pm.

Really sorry, work’s mad. Can

we push back meeting? x

I didn’t get his reply until an hour later, when I was finally out, with a notebook full of background to shore up the colour of the quotes from the school gates. I frowned when I read it.

Fine. Let me know another

night you’re free if you do

want to meet.

Balls. I reread the message I’d sent him, suddenly realizing that what I’d taken to mean me turning up an hour (OK, realistically, two) later had to his eyes meant I was cancelling completely. I started typing a reply but then realized it was likely to sound more strained. I threw my phone back in my bag – best to sort it later once I’d finished for the night.

Of course, trying to get across the city at half six by car is a joke. By the time I’d got back to the office and done what I needed to do I was thinking it was probably just as well he’d cancelled me, or I’d accidentally cancelled him, or whatever had actually just happened. I felt a pang at not having gotten to meet, though, made worse by the fact he hardly seemed that concerned about it; the tone of his text was frosty in comparison to the easygoing friendly messages of earlier. I don’t want to be
that
girl,
deconstructing texts on the basis of kisses, but I couldn’t help but notice some of them had disappeared over the course of the day.

When I got home I tried calling him, but it went through to voicemail. I left a quick message and hopped in the bath before going to bed, exhausted, but not in the way I’d envisaged I’d be when the day started.

The next day I emailed him to see if he was about later in the week to meet up. His response was non-committal and left me wondering if he’d actually ever been interested in meeting properly at all. I chalked it up to experience, moved along and chucked the matching bra and knicker set into my underwear drawer, hopeful there would be another point where I’d get to use it. Just, apparently, not for him. I was disappointed, but decided I wasn’t really that interested in his sexy smile, quick wit and overcoat-sharing brand of chivalry anyway.

Chivalry was overrated. I kept saying it to myself over and over during the following week, but even I knew I was kidding myself. The following Monday I cracked and sent him a link to a story from a political blog that I knew would make him incandescent with rage.

He replied within a few minutes of me sending it. My mental image of him tapping out his lengthy rant furiously on his BlackBerry made me smile.

I replied, calmly, reasonably and completely disagreeing with everything he said, as was inevitable whenever we discussed politics. Suddenly we were back and forth chatting again. Every time my phone pinged I’d get butterflies
in my stomach, hopeful it was him, and a lot of times it was.

Finally, at the end of an email where the discussion had deteriorated to the point where I was accusing him of despotic tendencies while he dismissed my ramblings as those of a ‘bloody hippy’, came a sentence that made my heart pound.

Look, I know this is possibly a

bad idea, but do you fancy

coming round for dinner?

He was right, it was a terrible idea, although I wasn’t sure I felt reassured that he felt that way too. Throwing caution to the wind, though, I immediately accepted. We could be idiots together, and at least I’d see how this played out.

I have a terrible sense of direction. Awful. If there is one thing about myself that I dislike above all others it is the fact I am incapable of finding my way anywhere. It makes me feel out of control, powerless, and not in a good way. I’ve been known to get lost in people’s houses.

James lived over the other side of the city to me, in an area so achingly upmarket I’d only driven through it a couple of times, for work. I decided that driving was a sensible course of action as it meant I could leave as early or as late as I wanted without having to rely on public transport. Of course, my crappy navigation skills made for a stressful drive over, even before I discovered his apartment block was so exclusive it apparently didn’t have
a sign showing its name. Plus most of my mind was focused on exactly what would happen when I got there. I trusted him in the sense that I knew enough about him that my nutter radar wasn’t sounding, but I couldn’t for the life of me marry up the James who seemed so confused by the drunk girl jumping him with the one who demanded I hand over my knickers. Or the one who thought having me come round for dinner was a terrible idea. Which was the real him? What on earth was I letting myself in for? And why was I even bothering, when we were in such different worlds? My serious case of the butterflies had only been exacerbated when I got a text from him a few hours earlier:

I am having concentration issues today. Keep thinking about exactly what to do with you. X

What did that mean? Was he talking about the rude things he’d hinted at before our school-scuppered date, or wondering whether to break open post-dinner Scrabble? I had no clue; my social capability was completely skewed. He’d broken my brain with a few kisses and emails. I had no hope.

It pretty much ended the productivity of my afternoon too as, with the best will in the world, writing up council planning application news is never going to hold the attention when your mind’s pondering smut. I found myself unable to stop thinking about what he might be thinking about. There was certainly a D/s-ish element to the things in my head, but was that him? Or was that me,
in a post-Thomas funk, seeing rudeness where there was none? Was I going to head over and make a complete arse of myself? The fact I’d resigned myself to this happening and yet still found I was unable to face cancelling depressed me immensely. I really
was
a masochist.

An attempt at reasserting some semblance of control didn’t end especially well. When I sent him a text asking if I could bring anything with me, I was thinking a bottle of wine or dessert. But his response was unequivocal and made me flush as I sat at my desk.

Condoms. Lots of condoms. x

Oh my. So he was thinking about us having sex then. That was a promising sign. Suffice to say my story on council planning didn’t get anywhere near the level of professional attention it should have done that afternoon. I did, however, undoubtedly look the cheeriest I ever have while writing it.

Finally I arrived at what I was fairly sure must be his road, parked my car in what I hoped was his basement and walked over to what I was hoping was his door. I rang the doorbell and as he came down to greet me, barefoot and smiling, I found myself smiling back in spite of my nerves. We walked up the stairs to his flat, although my distractedness was such that I managed to walk halfway up before he turned to look at me and said: ‘Sophie? You need to close my front door.’

Oooops. I blushed, went back down the stairs and closed it, before walking back up trying to look as if
nothing had happened. Smooth. I know, I impress even myself with my ability to hold it together in challenging social situations.

We got into the flat and he gestured towards the living room. I walked in and turned around, taking the opportunity to scope out the shelves and clutter for more clues about the kind of man he was. I know this makes me sound like a stalker; I maintain it’s my journalistic tendencies, although some people might argue that’s the same thing. Then he cleared his throat.

‘Close the door please, Sophie.’

I was halfway across the room to obey before I realized I’d moved instinctively. I shut the door gently and turned round to find him right behind me, invading my personal space. His hands became entwined in my hair as he bent his head towards mine for a kiss. I closed my eyes, enjoying the moment, how he towered over me and held me in place as his tongue invaded my mouth and his hands ran over my body, cupping my arse to pull me closer to him. He was the tallest man I had kissed, and – not being short myself – it was a novelty to feel dwarfed by his size. I felt he could either protect or overpower me easily depending on his intent. He broke the kiss and stroked my bare arms, which had, embarrassingly come out in goosebumps. Taking my hand he led me out of the room. No overpowering going on here then. I felt a pang of disappointment, at least until I smelled the unmistakable scent of garlic and rosemary coming from his kitchen. OK, I could work with this.

I love home cooking. Seriously. A lovely home-cooked dinner means more to me than the swishest restaurant. Living alone means I tend to not bother for the most part, living on stir fry, soup and cereal. Every so often I’ll go the other way and make something elaborate, although what usually happens is I get halfway through the process and am bored by the chopping, stuffing and basting and then revert back to soup for another three months.

So being around anyone who can cook is always a welcome novelty. As I sat on a stool in his kitchen with a glass of wine, James pottered around, chopping vegetables to go with some steak he’d apparently seasoned earlier. We chatted about work and TV, he told me about a long weekend he was planning with his sister to celebrate their parents’ golden wedding anniversary, and generally it was comfortable and relaxed and felt a million miles away from the ferocity of his kisses a few moments before. The change of gear left me completely on the back foot even though, being me, I was doing everything I could to show that I wasn’t in any way bothered at all, even if it was taking all my effort to stop myself from putting a finger to my lips to feel exactly how puffy my mouth was.