The List (19 page)

Ned 2
: ‘Naw, she looks like Katy Perry's maw.'

I turned round and scowled.

‘It's awright, missus, he'd still gie ye one.'

Oh, would he? Oh, how brilliant:
Right, big boy, put down your Scampi Fries, whip off those trackie bottoms, turn your cap around backwards and let's go for it
.

I vowed to forget it, but I still put on loads of anti-ageing cream before I got into bed.

Tuesday May 24th

I took Oliver out for a birthday meal this evening, mainly because I knew it would win me sex brownie points afterwards. He was working till seven so I met him in town. He looked rough.

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY! You look awful,' I said, giving him a hug. ‘You feeling all right? Your eyes have massive black circles under them.'

‘Gee, thanks,' he replied, running his hand through his rather greasy hair. ‘Yeah, was a late one last night. Boys from the office took me to a lap-dancing bar. I got hammered. Nothing some food won't fix.'

We went to one of those barbecue places where they hurl big chunks of meat and fish on to a grill and you stand there and go ‘Ooh!' while it cooks. I bought him the novel
Death of a Ladies' Man
, firstly because it's brilliant and sexy but also to remind him what happens to big shaggers who hit on the wrong women.

‘So tell me about your night,' I demanded, watching him stuff three king prawns into his mouth at once. ‘Did you get a dance?'

‘I did. To be honest, I'm not that into lap dancing. The girls are lovely and all, but it's all a bit cold, y'know; soulless.'

‘But you had a half-naked woman dancing for you. Surely that must have been fun.'

‘Nah. She smelled a bit sweaty.'

‘Yuck. That's made me feel quite queasy. I think I've had enough.'

We had a fantastic night but it's now three in the morning, I'm sick as a dog and exploding from both ends. Oliver went home shouting, ‘JESUS CHRIST, PHOEBE, THAT SMELLS LIKE SLURRY!' and if I wasn't so close to death already I'd kill myself through sheer embarrassment. Forget the food poisoning, I wonder how I'll ever be able to face Oliver again after this – if it's not bad enough that he had to endure my BV whiff, now he's privy to my angry bowels.

I feel awful. I would complain to the restaurant, but knowing my luck they'll just offer me a free meal if I go back.

Wednesday May 25th

I was relieved to get a text from Oliver this morning asking if I was feeling better and could I please fumigate the house before he came over to look after me. Hurrah! I'm grateful he's decided to come back, but aware that I'll have to face an evening of endless bowel jokes and ritual humiliation. I called in sick to work and had to speak to Kelly as Frank hadn't arrived yet.

‘Can you tell Frank I'm ill and won't be in today? Ta.'

‘What's wrong with you?' she asked abruptly.

‘Food poisoning.'

‘Oh really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Seems a little sudden.'

‘Food poisoning tends to work like that, Kelly.'

‘You know you'll be expected to be at home all day if we need to get in touch.'

‘I'll be at home. Tell Frank to phone me if he wants to chat about what a fucking jobsworth you are. Goodbye.'

I then crawled under the shower and made plans to set the bathroom on fire before Oliver came over.

Thursday May 26th

I'm feeling much better today. Oliver was so sweet last night; he didn't try to paw me, he made me lots of tea and he even slept on the couch in case I got unwell again. Nothing to do with the fact I have all the cable channels and there was a late-night boxing match on, obviously.

Friday May 27th

Bloody Frank thought I called in sick to avoid having our next meeting, or
last
meeting, should I say. It seems the whole world still revolves around him, but he's now convinced that I was indeed ill (apparently his sister had got food poisoning from the same restaurant so that makes it true). I've agreed to meet with him on Monday to get this over and done with. Then I can get back to some sort of normality.

I also discovered that Hazel is a genius. Her folks have a house in Skye and we're all going to drive up there and have a party for my birthday, which is months away but I don't care! She says the house sleeps up to eight, has a real-life coal fire and is miles from anywhere so we can shout and bang drums and stuff. Early birthday presents are the besterest.

Tuesday May 31st

My train journey into work this morning consisted of me trying not to scratch a massive, itchy heat spot which has appeared on the inside of my thigh. However, as the train pulled into Central station I gave in and practically clawed through my trousers to get at the little fucker. Public displays of scratching are never a good look, but I was desperate.

I managed to convince a car dealership to advertise with us, which seemed to please Frank.

‘Well done, we've been trying to get them in for ages. What swung it?'

‘A massive discount.'

‘Good. You can squeeze some money out of someone else to bring your figures up. Can you stay a bit later tonight? I'd like to have a chat.'

‘Yes, OK, but last one, Frank. You promised. I think I've more than kept up my end of the deal here.'

‘You have. Last one. Scout's honour.'

Everyone left at five and I cunningly pretended to be on the phone so Lucy wouldn't hang around for me or wonder
why I wasn't leaving. When the office was clear I walked into Frank's office and sat down.

‘Right, what can you possibly need help with now?'

‘Well, I was thinking if there was anything else I could do for Vanessa that I'm not already doing.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well. Y'know. In bed. Sexually.'

‘Oh my. Sexually.' I laughed.

‘Don't mock me,' he said, looking embarrassed. ‘Oh, I need a drink.' And then the shithead produced a bottle of bourbon from his bottom drawer and ran off to get some Coke for me from the vending machine. How could I not have known that was there?

When he returned, I took the can and poured some Coke into my coffee mug. ‘I don't really know what I can say, Frank. Why don't you go through what you'd normally do in bed, unless it's going to frighten me?'

He knocked his drink back, neat. ‘We do normal stuff. Probably tame compared to your depraved standards—'

‘HEY!'

‘—but I just want to be sure I'm giving her as much pleasure as possible.'

I held out my cup for some bourbon. ‘Maybe you should be asking Vanessa?'

‘Oh, don't be silly. Then she'll think I don't know what I'm doing.'

‘That's exactly what I'm thinking.'

‘Behave. Look, I'll go through what I do and if you can respond or advise without being a smart-arse, I'd appreciate it. Now drink up.'

An hour later we were both sozzled. ‘Hah! For God's sake, Frank. Unless she asks you to bite her, DON'T! No wonder she wasn't impressed. This isn't fucking
Twilight
.'

‘Stop swearing. I just wanted to be different. You know when you look at someone and the urge to make love to them takes over and there's nothing you can do about it? I have that with her, and I really shouldn't say this, but I've imagined that with you too. A lot.' We looked at each other and in the pit of my stomach I knew what was coming. I couldn't stop myself. I don't know if it was the booze or the fact that he'd grown on me over the past few weeks. but at that moment I could tell he wanted me and I felt the same. ‘Show me how you kiss,' I said, looking at him over the top of my cup.

‘What? How, I mean—'

I put down my glass and leant over and then stopped a couple of inches from his face. He smelled of booze and that aftershave I'd noticed before.

‘Show me,' I whispered.

He leaned in and kissed me. Oh, he kissed me good style – softly at first, then his hands were on my face and in my hair. I pulled back and we both paused for a minute to get a grip on what was happening. Next minute my top was off, my skirt hitched up and I was straddling him on his swivel chair. He lifted me off his lap, spun me round and bent me over his desk. Excitedly, I pulled down my underwear as he put a condom on.

Within seconds he was inside me.

It was intense, it was hot and it felt amazing. We did it over his desk, then on the floor, where our knees sustained
dreadful carpet burns. It was intense, it was hot … and it was totally WRONG. What the fuck is the matter with me? So, what, now I can't even have a drink with my wretched boss without having to shag him?

‘Just as depraved as I'd imagined,' he smiled, fastening his trousers. ‘Maybe next time we'll do this somewhere nicer than my office.'

‘Next time?' I was genuinely surprised that he didn't think this was a one-off. How arrogant. ‘This was a mistake, Frank. This will cause all sorts of problems,' I told him as I clumsily buttoned up my shirt and started searching for my heels, finally finding them under his desk.

‘You still haven't answered my question. Anything else you think I can do? From your reaction, I'm guessing no …'

‘No, it was fine. I think the best thing you can do for Vanessa is not shag anyone else. I'm going home now.'

I ran out of the office and caught a taxi home. For some reason Christian Bale's voice appeared in my head shouting, ‘So you fucked your boss, Phoebe. OH GOOD! GOOD FOR YOU!'

But to be honest, it wasn't ‘fine'; it was incredible. That said, the more I think about it the more I realize that Frank probably never had any doubts about how good he was in the sack. I've just been played. Pam Potter was absolutely right; she called this weeks ago. That shithead. Pretending he was naive about sex, making me think I was in charge when all the while he was seducing me. I could murder him.

Wednesday June 1st

‘I'm sorry,' Frank said when I marched angrily into his office first thing this morning, ‘But after you asked me to kiss you, I couldn't help myself.'

‘You absolute fuckbastard. All that nonsense about wanting help and pretending you weren't sure what to do – it was all bullshit, wasn't it? Did you plan this?'

He looked at me. ‘Keep your voice down. We both wanted last night, Phoebe. Don't act like you hadn't thought about it too.'

‘We will never speak about this again,' I insisted. ‘Tell Vanessa I said hi.' And I left his office and got on with my work.

By seven this evening we'd screwed twice in the staff toilets.

Thursday June 2nd

Although shagging my boss wasn't on my initial list, I hate to admit it, but it feels exciting. But it shouldn't feel exciting. It should feel icky and vile and degrading and
embarrassing. I mean it's Frank, for God's sake. Improved or not, this is the man who buys infantile art and wore that rubbish sparkly watch and thinks he's so much better than every other human being on the planet; the one who, in the past, I've wanted to stab repeatedly with the spoon I keep in my desk for yogurts, and the one who made me come twice on the floor of his office and gives me butterflies now every time I think of him. Whenever he walks past my desk I get flashbacks of him inside me, of his breath on my neck and his hands on my ass, and although there's a huge part of me that wants to kick the shit out of him, the sex is pretty knee-trembling.

A phone call from him earlier made me believe he feels the same:

‘Phoebe. Meet me in the station car park tomorrow after work.'

‘Why?' I asked, knowing full well why.

‘Because I'm going to take you back to my place, pour you some champagne and make love to you. Properly.'

Oooh, ‘properly'. Of course he'd say something totally cheesy like that when I'm surrounded by an office full of people and can't shout at him. It's certainly taken my focus away from Alex, which can only be a good thing, but I have the feeling I'm getting into something that will eventually turn round and bite me on this ass.

Friday June 3rd

Why can't I be one of these women who gets excited about rich men? It would make life so much easier. I'd be all:
‘Look at my boobs! Now give me some money for something! Anything!' and he'd be like: ‘You're the best girlfriend EVER. Have some euros!' (Because he'd be French.) I'm certain it would be very nice living in luxury and having wads of cash thrust at you, but I've always been more interested in a meeting of minds than the contents of someone's wallet. Anyway, after a quick fumble in the car after work Frank and I drove to his flat – brand new and undoubtedly worth a fortune. He opened the door to reveal a massive entrance hall with doors leading off it and a very large living room at the end. As expected, the decor was truly misguided. His walls are covered in a bizarre mix of abstract and tribal art, with a zebra-print rug sprawled out on the floor and a chandelier hanging from the living-room ceiling. There were wooden statuettes everywhere, minimalist furniture and a flat-screen television the size of my bed.

‘Champagne?' he asked, taking my coat. ‘Have a seat.'

I sank on to the huge red corner suite and nodded, unable to take my eyes off a luminescent dragon statue glaring at me from the corner of the room.

‘So, your flat is … spacious, Frank. You have quite the eclectic taste.'

‘Yes, I do. I think it's entirely possible to appreciate many forms of art and design at the same time.'

‘And in the same room.'

‘You have
Sophie's World
in your desk drawer. I wouldn't expect someone who reads chick-lit to grasp art.'

‘
Sophie's World
isn't …' I began, trying very hard not to laugh. ‘Never mind. You're right, Frank. I have no insight into your world. Seeing what makes you tick on a personal level really is an eye-opener.'