moment, and then leapt at Briony over the back of the sofa, knocking her over. The man behind the sofa was woken by two women crashing on top of him, but not in a good way.
Shelley took a train out to Northampton, then jumped in a taxi to the gates of the centre, which was somewhere near the border with Warwickshire. She stared thoughtfully at the discreet plaque on the right fence post as the driver turned in the road and drove off.
‘Fresh Paths’ was all the plaque said. This was the place. An Edwardian manor house set in two-hundred acres of sprawling countryside. It was a grey spring day and the daffodils were well past their best, standing slightly flaccid, petals turning brown.
Shelley shrugged, hefted her case and crunched her way along the gravel path towards her new beginning.
Shelley’s first sexual experience of any account had happened at school. Her friend Rhianna had told her Tom Broachfield fancied her and would she be at all interested in meeting him at lunchtime behind the toilet block. Rhianna was to come too, with her boyfriend, Rod. Though perhaps not the place you might first consider as a love den, the toilets had the advantage of being underused, due to the smell, as well as being out of sight of the school buildings. The bike shed was otherwise engaged, being the place to go for illicit smoking.
Shelley had gone along out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity, as well as loyalty to her friend. The boys were duly waiting for them behind the shed, looking nervous.
‘All right?’ they said.
Rhianna and Rod got right down to business, having dispensed with the formalities on a previous occasion. Shelley sat next to Tom and tried not to listen to the thick glooping sounds coming from the snogging couple. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, and neither, as it turned out, did Tom. Eventually he hissed in a sort of ‘Oh-sod-it-I’m-going-in’ kind of way and made a lunge at Shelley. As she was facing forwards, and made no effort to turn to meet the kiss, he ended up planting a smacker half on her cheek and half on her lip. She sat, stunned. Then he sort of grabbed her face, twisted it in a way supposed to be sensual, but more clammy in effect, and managed to plant one on her lips, which she kept firmly closed.
This went on for some time, and then the bell went. Shelley left, feeling a bit underwhelmed.
‘You’ll be fine next time,’ Rhianna assured her as they walked back to double maths. ‘So do you fancy him then?’
Shelley hadn’t even considered this. Was she supposed to? She liked boys, at least, boys in magazines, and on the telly. The thought of wanting to kiss one of the ones in her class seemed a bit different though. These boys were real, not fantasies. It was as though someone had just told you had to marry your brother.
‘S’pose,’ she replied.
Shelley walked in to the grand, Regency-style reception area and was greeted by one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, standing behind a counter. He had madly stylish hair, loose sculpted curls, and wore a blue Paul Smith shirt with the top button undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He also looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen him on the centre’s website?
‘Hello,’ he said, smiling broadly at her. ‘I’m Cian.’
‘Hello, Cian,’ Shelley replied. ‘I’m Shelley and I’m here for the Sex Addiction programme.’
And then, extraordinarily, the man winked at her. ‘I bet you are, my darling,’ he said, rather suggestively, and then looked at her breasts. ‘Ready for your examination?’
This didn’t seem right. Surely the last person you need on the counter at a sex clinic is Casanova’s less-reserved brother.
‘Mr O’Connor!’ A voice shouted from the other side of the entrance hall. ‘I’ve told you not to talk to the other patients yet, and get out from behind there. That’s for staff only.’
‘Sorry!’ Cian giggled and winked at Shelley again.
The owner of the voice arrived, a short, blonde lady of indeterminate age carrying a clipboard and with her hair in a tight bun. The dowdy suit wasn’t just snug on her, it was tight in all the wrong places, making her torso look like a collection of over-filled water-balloons held together by a woollen sack and secured with tightened belts.
‘Verity Parrish,’ the lady said, proffering a hand.
Shelley shook it and smiled. ‘Shelley Carter,’ she said.
‘Of course, you’re the last to arrive,’ Verity said, ticking something off on her clipboard.
‘Of course? Am I late?’ Shelley asked in alarm.
‘Not at all, everyone else was early, that’s all, must be doubly keen to get on with it, I suppose.’ She frowned at Shelley, eyes seeming to ask a question.
‘Me too!’ Shelley said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Let’s beat this damn addiction.’
‘Leave your bag here. The porter will take it up to your room. You need to just pop along to see Dr Jones, who will chat with you and ask you to sign a couple of forms, and then we’ll see you in the Mounting Room for an introductory session at three sharp.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Shelley said. ‘Did you say the Mounting Room?’
Verity gave her a stern look. ‘Oh dear. I can see we’ll have our work cut out with you. First floor, room 103,’ she said and walked off.
Shelley trudged up the sweeping staircase. Behind her a tubby woman in a tabard stomped out of a side door, saw Shelley’s bag and sighed. ‘Oh fan-fucking-tastic, another pervert’s arrived.’
Shelley inspected the fire-escape plan on the wall, trying to memorise the layout of the centre. The building was composed of three floors, the conference, dining and treatment rooms were on the ground floor along with the kitchens. The first floor held offices and staff quarters. The second floor was mostly patient accommodation. Shelley counted twenty of these en-suite rooms in the building’s two wings.
In addition to the main building, there were outbuildings including the drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, a pool and gym complex and some sheds and what-not. She had already noted the entire complex was enclosed by a twelve-foot wall, useful for keeping people in as well as out. Shelley started to wonder whether Aidan’s plan wasn’t just to stick her here out of the way while he got on with re-organising the magazine. Why hadn’t he just fired her? Did he want to force her to resign, giving up any redundancy she might be entitled to?
She stumped down the neutrally-decorated corridor, feet silent on the plush carpet and reached room 103. She knocked.
‘Come in!’ a voice called from inside.
Shelley found the director of the centre, Dr Janet Jones, sitting behind an enormous desk almost empty apart from a tiny laptop and a single sheet of paper. Shelley judged she might be in her late fifties, though perhaps younger as the menopause might explain her florid complexion. She had light brown hair, probably dyed.
‘Shelley Carter?’ Dr Jones asked. ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly, without waiting for a response.
Shelley did as she was told.
‘So,’ Dr Jones said, pulling a manila folder out of a drawer. She peered into it.
‘You’re a nurse?’
‘Yes,’ Shelley replied. She had been worrying she might get found out, but if this was the level of the questioning, she had no concerns.
‘You have a penchant for sleeping with patients.’ Dr Jones said matter-of-factly.
‘And doctors, and other nurses,’ Shelley replied.
‘You are bisexual?’ Dr Jones inquired. ‘The file doesn’t make