about my life. I’m a shagaholic already.’
Shelley had to admit this was true. Despite having a sort-of boyfriend, who didn’t seem to care what she got up to, Briony had slept with an enormous number of people, including the occasional woman, during the two years they’d shared the dishevelled flat near the tube station. Sometimes Shelley was woken in the night by vibrations and was never quite sure if they were caused by Central line trains pulling into the station, or her energetic friend.
Why hadn’t Aidan asked Briony to go to the clinic? She was a real-life sex addict. Maybe he had asked her and she’d refused? Or maybe he didn’t want her cured? Aidan wasn’t stupid, and it was obvious he’d done some background checking on his new staff to find out how they might be useful to him.
Shelley was sitting with her back to the bar. The pub was nothing special, just one of those interchangeable inner London pubs. But it sold a decent house white and there were generally big tables available if you got in early enough, which Briony and Shelley normally did. Freya was looking over Shelley’s shoulder and smirking. Shelley groaned inwardly, she knew what was coming.
‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ Freya said. Shelley didn’t have to look. It was her favourite barman, the South African.
‘Oh drop it,’ Shelley said, shaking her head.
‘Yes,’ Briony added, coming to her rescue. ‘Shelley already has a date tonight.’
One of Freya’s eyebrows raised itself just enough to make Shelley want to kill her.
‘Really?’ The fashion editor asked in the same disbelieving tone she might have used had Briony just told her Shelley had invented salt.
‘Yes, she’s going to a party with Gavin,’ Briony said. Shelley’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her former friend. ‘What on God’s blue-green Earth made you tell her that?’
Freya’s smirk had reached warp factor nine by now. ‘I don’t think I know Gavin.’ she said.
‘He likes Manga,’ Briony explained.
‘I see,’ Freya said in a tone that suggested it all made perfect sense now.
‘I do not have a date with Gavin,’ Shelley ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I find him hugely repulsive on both physical and intellectual levels.’
Freya nodded, after a slight pause.
‘I did think Shelley would have been a little out of his league,’ she said to Briony.
Shelley swallowed slowly. She wasn’t used to support from Freya, albeit lukewarm.
Briony was on her third super-sized glass by now though and apparently oblivious to how close she was to having the ice bucket rammed down her throat.
‘Remember our discussion though, Shell, start a few rungs down the ladder, until you get your confidence back.’
Freya nodded in appreciation of this soundly-made point.
‘Just out of interest, Briony,’ Shelley said in as reasonable tone as she could muster. ‘To what sort of level would you say I should aspire?’
‘On the Hollywood celebrity gauge?’
‘Naturally.’
‘What about Jim Carrey?’ said Karen.
‘You can do better than that,’ Ash from Accounts called from further up the table. ‘What about James Woods?’
‘How about we leave the Jims behind?’ said Shelley. ‘Let’s start thinking in terms of Brads and Georges.’
‘George Lucas?’ Freya suggested.
Shelley shook her head.
‘George Bush?’ Briony said.
Shelley kicked her. ‘He’s not Hollywood.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Oh we’re getting nowhere,’ said Shelley.’ What about you then, what’s your celeb level?’
Briony considered for a moment. ‘Matt Damon,’ she said confidently.
Shelley laughed out loud, but then realised everyone was nodding along in agreement.
‘What? You think you could get Matt Damon?’
Briony shook her head. ‘You’ve missed the point Shell, the idea of the game is to find your level, not to speculate on who you might be able to get into bed. I’m a Matt Damon, Freya here is a Bill Pullman, physically that is, personality-wise she’s a Steve Buscemi, Ashley is a Gene Hackman – no offence Ash – and you are an Elliott Gould, or possibly one of the Baldwins.’
Shelley stared back icily.
‘But if you go up to that barman and get his number, then maybe I can bump you up to a David Schwimmer.’ Briony snatched the bottle from the ice bucket sitting in the middle of the table and poured the last of it into her enormous glass. ‘Your round I think.’
All conversation had stopped and everyone watched smiling as Shelley got to her feet and walked to the bar. As she went, a path opened up magically before her in the busy pub, a path which led straight to a gap at the bar itself. Beyond the bar stood the South African, who, along with one of the other young bartenders, was dancing to a track pumping from the stereo. She watched his hips move and wondered briefly what it might be like to have those hips gyrating between her thighs, before crushing the thought like a grape. He saw her coming, stopped dancing and smiled broadly as she approached. Another punter waved a twenty at him from stage right but he kept his eyes fixed on Shelley.
She reached the bar and smiled back. This was it. She didn’t need sex therapy; she didn’t need Briony to fix her up with comic-reading nerds. She was quite capable of forming romantic liaisons with attractive young men.
She could feel the eyes of her colleagues burning into the small of her back. They were expecting her to fall to pieces again. But she knew exactly what she was going to say and do. She was going to ask him his name then she was going to ask him what time he finished. Two simple questions. She’d show them she wasn’t to be trifled with. She was a David Schwimmer, no, better than that, she was a David Duchovny.
The barman leaned towards her. Too close.
‘What can I do for you, beautiful?’ he said and looked directly into her eyes, smiling at her as if she were a childhood sweetheart.
She froze.
His smile dropped a millimetre. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘Ub … ub … ub.’
She could smell his aftershave. She wanted to cradle his rough-looking head against her flat, naked stomach and at the same time she wanted to run screaming into the night.
He peered quizzically at her. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘What was that?’
‘P-Pinot Grigio?’ Shelley squeaked.
He looked disappointed and gave her a bemused stare before nodding and turning away. ‘Coming right up,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Shelley said, slamming the new bottle back in the ice bucket. She felt like crawling inside the bucket herself, freezing herself solid. There had been a girl at university with Shelley whom everyone called the Ice Queen. She hardly spoke to boys and rumours flew that she was a lesbian, or a man-hater, then a vampire. Shelley sat next to her sometimes, discovered her name was Jane and they became casual friends. Jane was neither lesbian nor vampire, nor did she hate men. She was simply the most focused person Shelley had ever met. She didn’t care what people said about her, or what they thought. She was there to excel in her chosen field and she did so.
Shelley admired her immensely and wished she had even half her self-possession. The problem was that Shelley did care what people thought. She did care what people said. She was terrified