miniscule skirt and thigh-high boots. She’d stood and announced clearly and confidently, ‘My name is Abigail, I’m a sex addict. I’m thirty-four and have been a dominatrix for the past four years, full-time; before that I just dabbled. I love inflicting pain, and have got to the point where I can’t enjoy a normal sex life. I need help.’
She sat, and resumed staring at Shelley.
Next to speak was Will. He wasn’t bad-looking though wore an expression that said he knew it. He introduced himself in a Northern accent as Will Trewin, a merchant banker. This caused giggles between Cian and Larry, who seemed to have become firm friends already. Shelley wished she were sitting next to them. Will glared at them and went on. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m a serial adulterer. I love my wife, Mand, and our little lad. But I just can’t help myself. I’ve sworn off the affairs so many times, and Mand’s forgiven me nearly as many. But she’s finally put her foot down. If I can’t mend me ways, she’s off. So here I am.’
After Will, Cliff and Cheryl stood together. Verity explained:
‘Cliff and Cheryl are here together, as a couple. This is not unusual. We often have couples here at the clinic hoping to improve their sex lives. But it is unusual to have a couple in an addiction programme, please make them feel welcome.’ She waved at them to begin.
‘We are most definitely sex addicts,’ Cliff laughed. ‘We’re swingers and like to take part in threesomes, foursomes and more-somes regularly. Now that would be okay, as we both feel the same way about it …’
Cheryl nodded. They were a good-looking couple, Shelley couldn’t help but notice. Cheryl was slim, with boyish hips and short, sandy hair. Cliff was average height, with wide-set eyes and the sort of familiar, even face that made him look an actor you spend the whole movie trying to remember what you’ve seen them in before. Most of the swingers Shelley had read about looked like they’d fallen out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, been stung by bees and landed on their faces.
Cliff went on. ‘But the problem is we want our own sex life to be just as good, like it used to be. And we’re increasingly finding we’re just not interested unless there are other people involved.’
‘We want our own sex life back,’ Cheryl finished. They smiled at each other and sat down.
Next was Cian. ‘Wotcher,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Right, I’m Cian O’Connor, lead singer of The Cossacks.’
That’s where I’ve seen him before, Shelley thought to herself.
‘I’m here because I can’t stop knobbing endless lines of women. It’s not that I don’t like it, but I think I’ve had enough really and need to settle down. My career’s suffering and me old man’s not too happy with the direction my life’s taking. Tada!’ he finished with a flourish and sat down. God, he was good looking. Briony would say he was the sort of man you wanted to bite bits off of.
Last to speak was the Larry, the young Asian man sitting to Cian’s right, and Verity’s left. He introduced himself as Larry Bala. ‘I’m a Singaporean sex addict,’ he proclaimed, with a shy grin. He had lovely jet-black hair and perfect skin. ‘Or at least I’m a wank addict cos I just can’t stop masturbating. I spend up to twelve hours a day on the internet, looking at porn and quite frankly, ladies and gentlemen, the stuff I’m looking at is just getting weirder and weirder. Plus there have been some, er, incidents in public. I need to turn my hand to something else, my father said. So here I am.’
Now Shelley realised why everyone had taken an interest in her story. There was apparently something there for everyone. Well that was okay, she could use that to her advantage, get them to open up more outside the formal sessions.
‘Thank you everyone,’ Verity said, shuffling her papers. ‘Now, if you’d all like to help yourselves to a cup of tea or coffee, and use the facilities. Then we need to press on with the full confessionals. Shelley has already said she wants to go last. But would anyone like to volunteer to go first?’
‘Yes,’ said Rose without hesitation. Shelley turned to look at her. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to tell this story for ages now, and it’s all ready to fall out my head if I wait any longer.’
‘Fine, let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes, and we’ll hear what Rose has to say. I know you’ve all been fully briefed on the content of the course, but let me just reiterate that you are all expected to give a warts-and-all account, what we call a ‘confessional’ of the events that led to you coming here. If you can’t open up to us and tell us the truth, then you can’t open up to what you are for yourself.’
Shelley winced at the appalling sentence structure. It sounded like so much cod psychology to her. But she nodded along with the rest, her mind wandering and thinking of the BlackBerry in her jacket. She wanted to hide it in her bag, but was worried Sandra would search it, looking for pornography or sex toys. Any kind of recording device or means of communication with the outside world was forbidden.
Rewriting the story later would be long-winded on the BlackBerry’s tiny keyboard, but unless Rose turned out to be the Catherine Cookson of the porn industry, her story would need editing anyway. Aidan had asked Shelley to do her best to relate each story in the style and vernacular of the person telling it. In the old days reporters used to phone their copy through to sub-editors back in the office.
Shelley was actually quite glad she didn’t have her own mobile, and not just because she didn’t have to read any more embarrassing texts from Gavin. Briony had a tendency to download intensely irritating ring tones and set them up to go off at top volume on Shelley’s phone, which she’d then hide at the bottom of Shelley’s bag. Last week she’d had to endure a mortifying forty-five seconds on the tube rummaging through her bag, flipping tampons everywhere while looking for the damn thing as it played ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’, by the Dead Kennedys.
‘So Rose, we want everything!’ Verity was saying to the voluptuous blonde.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rose replied, smiling. ‘You’re gonna get it.’
‘God I love Hobnobs,’ Cian said, ‘Hey Verity, are we allowed to fuck biscuits?’
She stared back at him in astonishment. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Well I know we’re not allowed to shag each other,’ and he waved a hand at Cheryl, who giggled. ‘So maybe we could transfer our passions onto non-threatening, inanimate objects like biscuits. I quite fancy knobbing my way through a packet of Jaffa Cakes.’
Will shook his head and snorted. Abigail looked a bit green and put her biscuit back on the plate, from where Larry snatched it up.
‘And the best thing is you can eat them afterwards, saves the cost of putting ’em in a cab and sending them back to Mummy.’
‘I don’t think that kind of talk is really appropriate,’ Verity said as they took their seats again. ‘Now everyone quiet down please. Show Rose some courtesy. Rose?’
Rose stood, and Shelley smiled at her as their eyes met briefly. Rose cleared her throat and began to speak.
* * *
Home was Whitechapel and I left it when my mum told me I couldn’t be a model. She was right, though it took me a long time to admit it. My tits and arse were too big to fit into those tiny frocks, but I was sixteen and knew nothing. I’d met this bloke you see, a photographer who told me my cheekbones were just right for that season, and that he wanted me to sign up with him. He asked for £150 for photos and I emptied my savings account. He gave me a place to stay too, with some other girls, mostly from Eastern Europe. I thought I had it made right then, but someone took those rose-tinted glasses off me after a few days and chucked ’em in the canal. First of all nothing happened. I just stayed in the flat with the other girls. Horrible dingy place it was. Out near Ilford and you can’t