voice reeking with desperation, ‘can you write?’
‘Uh, yeah, I suppose,’ Nicola replied, thinking basic skills.
‘You’ve had sex?’
Nicola tried not to blush. Like most women around thirty, she’d enjoyed her quota of unsatisfying minor relationships, passionate yet one-sided infatuations, ill-judged one-night stands, miscellaneous fumbles and gropes as well as a major relationship or two. She had no idea what Liz was on about.
‘Here. Desk. Sit. Write. Anabelle.’ Liz pushed her down into the previous Anabelle’s empty chair and pinged on the blueberry iMac. For someone so tiny, Liz was surprisingly strong.Nicola thudded down into the seat and looked up in astonishment.
‘Sorry, boxercise,’ Liz explained, giggling and punching the air uncomfortably close to Nicola’s face. ‘Nine hundred words. Whatever. Tonight. Go for your life.’ Wrenching the stopper out of a bottle of Rescue Remedy, Liz tilted back her head and irrigated the underside of her tongue. ‘Ahh. I feel better already.’ She spun on her kitten heels, tripped, caught herself, stumbled back into her office, put her head on the desk and passed out.
Nicola had been doing ‘Anabelle Says’ ever since. No one seemed to notice her lack of formal sexpertise. Like every other woman who’d ever worked in an office, she had clocked up thousands of hours of conversations on the subject of sex and relationships, including detailed analyses of her own, her colleagues’ and all their friends’ affairs and exploits. Writing as Anabelle, she adopted the confidential, casual style of girly chat, and was an instant hit with readers. It wasn’t long before she moved into editorial fulltime, contributing, in addition to her column, featureson ‘Ten Signs That Your Relationship Is in Trouble!’ and ‘What Your Wardrobe Says about Your Personality in Bed!’ It certainly was more fun than accounts, especially since the introduction of the GST.
Besides, Nicola was an unabashed women’s magazine addict. She could recite the catechism by heart: ‘If He Won’t Commit, Find Someone Who Will!’ ‘Spice up Your Love Life and Keep Your Man!’ ‘Say Goodbye to Mr Wrong!’ She believed it, too. And why not? Unfortunately, when Nicola had spiced up her love life, she almost lost her man. As for Mr Wrong, she’d tried and tried but never could say goodbye.
Until tonight.
The real name of Nicola’s Mr Wrong was Mr Wright, which she thought of as one of life’s little ironies. Johnny B. Wright was a successful architect who penetrated and dominated the city’s skyline with thrusting towers of steel and stone. The skyline wasn’t the only thing he was famous for penetrating and dominating.
Nicola had known all along that she was, as Anabelle would say, ‘Playing with Fire!’, but inthis case the fireman was the last person she could call. Her fiancé, Fox, you see, actually was a fireman. This was one reason why no one at the magazine doubted Nicola knew what she was talking about when it came to relationships and sex. Firemen, as anyone who’s ever read a women’s magazine would know, are ‘Every Woman’s Fantasy!’ And Fox was one fantasy fireman.
Fox looked like the man for any woman’s emergency. Blond, with smoky blue-grey eyes and lips that looked made for all manner of unspeakable acts, Fox didn’t say much, but his smouldering reserve just increased his sexual mystique. Only Nicola knew the truth, which was that Fox, to put it delicately, was a man of few words and fewer positions. When, emboldened by a column she’d written about ‘Finding His G-spot!’ Nicola had made a certain suggestion, his reply was immediate, definite and characteristic: ‘Nup. Not trying that. Fire exit. Locked from the outside.’
Judging from a chart recently published in
Lip,
the 2-3.5 times a week they had sex wasabout average for a couple of their duration—five years. According to the ‘What Kind of Sex Are You Getting?’ issue, the kind
‘Uh, yeah, I suppose,’ Nicola replied, thinking basic skills.
‘You’ve had sex?’
Nicola tried not to blush. Like most women around thirty, she’d enjoyed her quota of unsatisfying minor relationships, passionate yet one-sided infatuations, ill-judged one-night stands, miscellaneous fumbles and gropes as well as a major relationship or two. She had no idea what Liz was on about.
‘Here. Desk. Sit. Write. Anabelle.’ Liz pushed her down into the previous Anabelle’s empty chair and pinged on the blueberry iMac. For someone so tiny, Liz was surprisingly strong.Nicola thudded down into the seat and looked up in astonishment.
‘Sorry, boxercise,’ Liz explained, giggling and punching the air uncomfortably close to Nicola’s face. ‘Nine hundred words. Whatever. Tonight. Go for your life.’ Wrenching the stopper out of a bottle of Rescue Remedy, Liz tilted back her head and irrigated the underside of her tongue. ‘Ahh. I feel better already.’ She spun on her kitten heels, tripped, caught herself, stumbled back into her office, put her head on the desk and passed out.
Nicola had been doing ‘Anabelle Says’ ever since. No one seemed to notice her lack of formal sexpertise. Like every other woman who’d ever worked in an office, she had clocked up thousands of hours of conversations on the subject of sex and relationships, including detailed analyses of her own, her colleagues’ and all their friends’ affairs and exploits. Writing as Anabelle, she adopted the confidential, casual style of girly chat, and was an instant hit with readers. It wasn’t long before she moved into editorial fulltime, contributing, in addition to her column, featureson ‘Ten Signs That Your Relationship Is in Trouble!’ and ‘What Your Wardrobe Says about Your Personality in Bed!’ It certainly was more fun than accounts, especially since the introduction of the GST.
Besides, Nicola was an unabashed women’s magazine addict. She could recite the catechism by heart: ‘If He Won’t Commit, Find Someone Who Will!’ ‘Spice up Your Love Life and Keep Your Man!’ ‘Say Goodbye to Mr Wrong!’ She believed it, too. And why not? Unfortunately, when Nicola had spiced up her love life, she almost lost her man. As for Mr Wrong, she’d tried and tried but never could say goodbye.
Until tonight.
The real name of Nicola’s Mr Wrong was Mr Wright, which she thought of as one of life’s little ironies. Johnny B. Wright was a successful architect who penetrated and dominated the city’s skyline with thrusting towers of steel and stone. The skyline wasn’t the only thing he was famous for penetrating and dominating.
Nicola had known all along that she was, as Anabelle would say, ‘Playing with Fire!’, but inthis case the fireman was the last person she could call. Her fiancé, Fox, you see, actually was a fireman. This was one reason why no one at the magazine doubted Nicola knew what she was talking about when it came to relationships and sex. Firemen, as anyone who’s ever read a women’s magazine would know, are ‘Every Woman’s Fantasy!’ And Fox was one fantasy fireman.
Fox looked like the man for any woman’s emergency. Blond, with smoky blue-grey eyes and lips that looked made for all manner of unspeakable acts, Fox didn’t say much, but his smouldering reserve just increased his sexual mystique. Only Nicola knew the truth, which was that Fox, to put it delicately, was a man of few words and fewer positions. When, emboldened by a column she’d written about ‘Finding His G-spot!’ Nicola had made a certain suggestion, his reply was immediate, definite and characteristic: ‘Nup. Not trying that. Fire exit. Locked from the outside.’
Judging from a chart recently published in
Lip,
the 2-3.5 times a week they had sex wasabout average for a couple of their duration—five years. According to the ‘What Kind of Sex Are You Getting?’ issue, the kind
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