knew how they all felt, because she had come along and done the same to him. Used him like a trash can, then dumped him and his soft, useless cock. He felt an immense urge to tell someone, for somebody, anybody to make him feel better. He had spent years, decades, sitting on a chair in his office, listening to griping, lost clients. They came to him for help, but had he ever listened to them? Really listened? Or just sat there, twiddling his pen, rarely throwing out a monotonous statement, before arranging the next session? Had he ever given anyone true solace? Perhaps not. And now he felt as they must have in their desperation.
The stars fought to get through the heavy, black clouds. And he lay there. Naked. Crying. Ashamed. Back to work.
*
Devon
Devon was lying in a giant tub of bubbles at The Berkeley. The book tour was almost complete, having done signings, interviews with two nationals and an appearance on a morning TV s how with two hosts: one a blous y, though pleasant woman with an endearing smile; and a man who resembled an ageing ferret. Devon had charmed and smiled and been a perfectly divine, if somewhat mysterious, guest. Her time in England was almost up. She would be back in LA in two days. She sank lower in the tub until the bubbles covered her chin. Her eyes began to glaze over as she realized that the time had come and that there was just one more thing she had to do. Needed to do. A place she had to go and someone she needed to see. Devon knew that she had to go back to her past in order to escape to her future.
*
Frankie
Frankie looked out onto Wigmore Street from the sun-warmed window of Starbucks. The sky was so blue, as ripe as the palest delphiniums, the first promise of spring having finally sprung after a long, drawn out winter. She was so early for Sam today, but she had wanted to pop into town and have a look around for some new things to wear. The thought of meeting him, of possibly flying out to meet him, (what a thought!) made her feel bilious, a word she detested but couldn’t think of an alternative to describe her state of mind or stomach. She sipped her black tea, sweetened with a crumbly pack of brown sugar. She hadn’t found a thing she liked in the stores but she knew that she needed to pry herself out of her usual attire of baggy jeans and safe neutral T-shirts in beige and grey. There was just too much choice with everything where clothes were concerned: colours, frills, soppy necklines, strange fabrics, awkward patterns, unsure sleeves. Those rails upon rails of everything conceivable item of clothing were, she pondered, breeding grounds for migraine. All she really wanted was sexy simplicity, but it was proving to be hard to find. A lot of work for a man she had never met. The Internet could be so seductive, but she really didn’t know very much about him at all? Would she even want to know him once she saw him in the flesh? Would she like the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him? The music in Starbucks piping through the scent of coffee was jazzily drowning out all conversation. So Frankie sat, in a sea of white noise enhanced by Arabica beans. She was holding a little greaseproof bag bulging with Sam’s sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit that was slowly and unevenly melting against its wrapper. Frankie believed that all kids should have a biscuit after school to sweeten their day. She loved her job, loved Sam. She had been with him since he’d started nursery school and they were so close, but after devoting herself to him for the last few years she knew it was time to start thinking about herself and her own life. She couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting to have her own baby because she had been so involved with caring for someone else’s child. A good man would help of course, but at this stage she thought that it would be harder to meet the right guy than to have a baby. Still,
The stars fought to get through the heavy, black clouds. And he lay there. Naked. Crying. Ashamed. Back to work.
*
Devon
Devon was lying in a giant tub of bubbles at The Berkeley. The book tour was almost complete, having done signings, interviews with two nationals and an appearance on a morning TV s how with two hosts: one a blous y, though pleasant woman with an endearing smile; and a man who resembled an ageing ferret. Devon had charmed and smiled and been a perfectly divine, if somewhat mysterious, guest. Her time in England was almost up. She would be back in LA in two days. She sank lower in the tub until the bubbles covered her chin. Her eyes began to glaze over as she realized that the time had come and that there was just one more thing she had to do. Needed to do. A place she had to go and someone she needed to see. Devon knew that she had to go back to her past in order to escape to her future.
*
Frankie
Frankie looked out onto Wigmore Street from the sun-warmed window of Starbucks. The sky was so blue, as ripe as the palest delphiniums, the first promise of spring having finally sprung after a long, drawn out winter. She was so early for Sam today, but she had wanted to pop into town and have a look around for some new things to wear. The thought of meeting him, of possibly flying out to meet him, (what a thought!) made her feel bilious, a word she detested but couldn’t think of an alternative to describe her state of mind or stomach. She sipped her black tea, sweetened with a crumbly pack of brown sugar. She hadn’t found a thing she liked in the stores but she knew that she needed to pry herself out of her usual attire of baggy jeans and safe neutral T-shirts in beige and grey. There was just too much choice with everything where clothes were concerned: colours, frills, soppy necklines, strange fabrics, awkward patterns, unsure sleeves. Those rails upon rails of everything conceivable item of clothing were, she pondered, breeding grounds for migraine. All she really wanted was sexy simplicity, but it was proving to be hard to find. A lot of work for a man she had never met. The Internet could be so seductive, but she really didn’t know very much about him at all? Would she even want to know him once she saw him in the flesh? Would she like the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him? The music in Starbucks piping through the scent of coffee was jazzily drowning out all conversation. So Frankie sat, in a sea of white noise enhanced by Arabica beans. She was holding a little greaseproof bag bulging with Sam’s sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit that was slowly and unevenly melting against its wrapper. Frankie believed that all kids should have a biscuit after school to sweeten their day. She loved her job, loved Sam. She had been with him since he’d started nursery school and they were so close, but after devoting herself to him for the last few years she knew it was time to start thinking about herself and her own life. She couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting to have her own baby because she had been so involved with caring for someone else’s child. A good man would help of course, but at this stage she thought that it would be harder to meet the right guy than to have a baby. Still,
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