Lisa. I’ve never had to, but they probably wouldn’t understand how or why I agreed to such a thing. I barely understand it. I might mention it later on, when we are face to face, but over the phone it’s difficult to explain why it was so utterly impossible to resist anything Scott suggested.
‘What did Adam make of it?’ asks Lisa.
‘I haven’t mentioned it to him,’ I say, regretting the fact that my voice becomes slightly squeaky and thin when I admit as much. I don’t want to be defensive. Lisa makes a funny sucking sound that I recognize as part warning, part condemnation. She sometimes makes that sound when I reach for an indulgent second piece of chocolate cake. ‘He’s busy,’ I add. ‘Besides, he wouldn’t be interested or impressed. Adam and his crew probably all see Scott every day.’ I know I’m being evasive. I don’t know how to tell Lisa that sharing the encounter with Adam would somehow spoil it, risk it. ‘It’s no big deal, it’s not like I met some real gorgeous, hot, clever, funny guy,’ I joke.
‘Scott is real,’ argues Lisa.
I don’t say, true, when he sucked my blood off his thumb he did seem very real. I say, ‘No, he’s not. He’s a fantasy figure.’
‘He was a fantasy figure until you spent all morning playing cards with him and now he’s real,’ says Lisa.
‘If only,’ I sigh with obvious regret. Then I make an effort to turn the subject. ‘Now, let’s make a plan. You have to get here as soon as you can. When’s your babysitter due?’
After we’ve made our arrangements I go to the merchandise store and buy a pair of new knickers; I choose a pair with the words ‘Scottie Taylor, Deity’ emblazoned in silver, glittering letters. Then I decide to pass the rest of the afternoon sitting and thinking about my glorious secret; Scott Taylor – legend – definitely had a boner for me. It all came to such a weird abrupt halt that I can’t quite decide what Scott thought of the encounter. Not that I’m assuming he thought anything at all. As I say, this is all probably in a day’s work for him. He was probably relieved that I said no to more poker (he did at least have the opportunity to order lunch). But then I can’t help wondering would he have carried on playing – stripping – if I’d allowed him. Would he have stripped me? If I’d allowed him? I give myself a few moments to indulge in the fantasy. I shiver with delight.
Despite the fact that it’s my thirtieth birthday today I feel about fifteen. I feel pretty, so pretty, and fine and I want to leap about like some character out of a cheesy Broadway musical. My panties are twinkling with Scottie Taylor.
13. Scott
‘Let’s make this interview snappy, hey.’ I stare at Saadi and she understands. She understands that I haven’t got my rocks off, that I’m not even able to for another few days and frankly it’s pissing me off. That Fern chick was cute. Very cute. ‘Who am I talking to anyway?’
‘Dazed and Confused,’ Mark, my manager, informs me. He means that’s the name of the publication, rather than my state of mind. Although that would be accurate too.
Dazed and Confused position themselves as anarchic, feisty, real, grungy, edgy. Easy. They’ll want to talk about sex. Most people want to talk about sex with me. I’ve never been so vain as to believe my sex life is all-absorbing; unfortunately the western world disagrees with me.
‘So how did Adam Cooper’s bird wash up in your room?’ asks Saadi.
‘Fern,’ I say.
‘Yeah, Fern. She doesn’t look like a headcase.’
‘Why would you assume she’s a headcase?’
‘She’s issued Adam with this effing insane ultimatum. He has to ask her to marry him on her thirtieth or she’s going to walk.’ Saadi, a confirmed bachelor girl, shakes her head in bewilderment as to why anyone would want this.
‘It’s her birthday today. Is he going to ask her?’
Saadi shrugs. ‘Nobody knows. He’s been with her for four
‘What did Adam make of it?’ asks Lisa.
‘I haven’t mentioned it to him,’ I say, regretting the fact that my voice becomes slightly squeaky and thin when I admit as much. I don’t want to be defensive. Lisa makes a funny sucking sound that I recognize as part warning, part condemnation. She sometimes makes that sound when I reach for an indulgent second piece of chocolate cake. ‘He’s busy,’ I add. ‘Besides, he wouldn’t be interested or impressed. Adam and his crew probably all see Scott every day.’ I know I’m being evasive. I don’t know how to tell Lisa that sharing the encounter with Adam would somehow spoil it, risk it. ‘It’s no big deal, it’s not like I met some real gorgeous, hot, clever, funny guy,’ I joke.
‘Scott is real,’ argues Lisa.
I don’t say, true, when he sucked my blood off his thumb he did seem very real. I say, ‘No, he’s not. He’s a fantasy figure.’
‘He was a fantasy figure until you spent all morning playing cards with him and now he’s real,’ says Lisa.
‘If only,’ I sigh with obvious regret. Then I make an effort to turn the subject. ‘Now, let’s make a plan. You have to get here as soon as you can. When’s your babysitter due?’
After we’ve made our arrangements I go to the merchandise store and buy a pair of new knickers; I choose a pair with the words ‘Scottie Taylor, Deity’ emblazoned in silver, glittering letters. Then I decide to pass the rest of the afternoon sitting and thinking about my glorious secret; Scott Taylor – legend – definitely had a boner for me. It all came to such a weird abrupt halt that I can’t quite decide what Scott thought of the encounter. Not that I’m assuming he thought anything at all. As I say, this is all probably in a day’s work for him. He was probably relieved that I said no to more poker (he did at least have the opportunity to order lunch). But then I can’t help wondering would he have carried on playing – stripping – if I’d allowed him. Would he have stripped me? If I’d allowed him? I give myself a few moments to indulge in the fantasy. I shiver with delight.
Despite the fact that it’s my thirtieth birthday today I feel about fifteen. I feel pretty, so pretty, and fine and I want to leap about like some character out of a cheesy Broadway musical. My panties are twinkling with Scottie Taylor.
13. Scott
‘Let’s make this interview snappy, hey.’ I stare at Saadi and she understands. She understands that I haven’t got my rocks off, that I’m not even able to for another few days and frankly it’s pissing me off. That Fern chick was cute. Very cute. ‘Who am I talking to anyway?’
‘Dazed and Confused,’ Mark, my manager, informs me. He means that’s the name of the publication, rather than my state of mind. Although that would be accurate too.
Dazed and Confused position themselves as anarchic, feisty, real, grungy, edgy. Easy. They’ll want to talk about sex. Most people want to talk about sex with me. I’ve never been so vain as to believe my sex life is all-absorbing; unfortunately the western world disagrees with me.
‘So how did Adam Cooper’s bird wash up in your room?’ asks Saadi.
‘Fern,’ I say.
‘Yeah, Fern. She doesn’t look like a headcase.’
‘Why would you assume she’s a headcase?’
‘She’s issued Adam with this effing insane ultimatum. He has to ask her to marry him on her thirtieth or she’s going to walk.’ Saadi, a confirmed bachelor girl, shakes her head in bewilderment as to why anyone would want this.
‘It’s her birthday today. Is he going to ask her?’
Saadi shrugs. ‘Nobody knows. He’s been with her for four
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