Breaking Leila by Lucy V. Morgan Page B

the
other hand, means they’ll be pleased if you just have your own
teeth.”
    “Erm.” I
swallowed. “Can I just come and raid your wardrobe a bit later? I
need the clothes for tomorrow.”
    “I’m a bit
tight for time–I think James wants us to play tennis.”
    “You’re going
to dump me to play with big yellow balls?”
    “Oh, okay.” She sighed. “If it means   that much   to you.”
    “Slutface.”
    “Frigid bitch.”
She giggled, sloshing water about again.
    “I know,” I
tutted. “I don’t know what he sees in me.”
     

Chapter 6
     
    Joseph
constructed Thursday’s activities just to be mean to me. He sent me
through to the “real” solicitors in his department to peer over
their shoulders and make feigned noises of interest. They were the
people I could be working with in just a few weeks, after all.
Algie Bach spent the best part of the afternoon trying to explain
some weird nuance of acquisition law to me. I did much nodding and
humming and wondering if he was gay–he kept checking out Matt’s ass
every time he came through to use the library.
    Not that I
blamed him; Matt had beautifully cut trousers.
    Would I get a
chance to unzip them later that evening? I knew I wasn’t allowed,
but still, the thought gave me something to concentrate on. Matt
swanned by every half an hour, that knowing little smile playing on
his lips...mean tease.
    The two sides
of me–my two jobs–had always been separated, by difference in hours
if nothing else. Now, the two mingled as if someone had sliced
right through the skin. I liked being wounded like this. I liked
the risk and the pain of being tugged in so many directions, the
fragility of it all.
    I was a house
of cards, waiting to be blown.
    * * * *
    I talked Algie
into letting me leave work early by pointing out how little he had
done all afternoon, except waffle at me. I had three glorious hours
to prepare for my not-date and learn how rugby worked.
    Okay. I didn’t
give a flying toss about rugby. See what I did there? No? Gah.
    Clemmie had
loaned me clothes for what she called postmodern Sloaning: an
invisibly tailored denim skirt that skimmed my thighs, and a fitted
cardigan from Gap.
    “Are you sure about this?” I’d asked, twisting in front of
her Laura Ashley mirror. “Legs   and   cleavage?”
    She had waved a
hand dismissively. “You’re wearing flats, chickadee. Your legs
don’t count.”
    “I look like a
seventeen-year-old going to the cinema.”
    Clemmie
snorted. “Be thankful you can pass for seventeen!”
    I stood at the
corner, waiting for Matt in the cool breeze of the evening and
slowly submerging myself in the panic that he wouldn’t turn up.
When he finally appeared on the horizon, I went dizzy with
relief.
    He squinted at
me in the melting sun. “You look different.”
    “I straightened
my hair,” I said dryly.
    He grinned.
“You look normal.”
    “You look like
it’s fresher’s week,” I retorted, gesturing to his jeans and rugby
shirt. “Are you going to treat me to a tacky alcopop or two?”
    “Pfft. That’s
only for the classy ladies.” He nodded in the opposite direction.
“Shall we?”
    We fell into
step with each other.
    “So what will
we be doing tonight, exactly?” I said. “Have you brought me to sell
as a slave?”
    “You’re awfully
preoccupied with being bought, aren’t you?”
    I paused. “I
suppose I am.”
    “But you don’t
do that anymore.”
    “No. It’s force
of habit.” I shrugged. “And I never did see it as a bad thing.”
    “If our brief
encounter was anything to go by, I can believe that.” He seemed to
wonder what to do with his hands for a moment before shoving them
in his pockets. “But in other news…tonight is a bit like a village
fair. Stalls and raffles and bad home-made cakes.”
    “You said
there’d be a buffet.”
    “There will!
It’s just made of butterfly cupcakes and ginger loaf.”
    “You know your
cake.” I giggled. “I like