Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk. Freya North

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      ‘Are you OK, Alice?’ he asked, closing the book and laying it down. ‘You look a little out of sorts.’

      ‘I feel a little low,’ Alice confided in a whisper, the threat of tears a flint-edged pebble catching her voice.

      Mark switched off the light and took her in his arms. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘there there. Get some sleep. Everything passes.’

      It wasn’t Mark’s simplistic optimism that raised a small smile from Alice, it was that he knew precisely what to do for her just then. He knew not to probe, not to reason. He just had to hold her close and soothingly and so he did just that. It was just right. And she loved him for it. And for the first time she felt searing guilt at her own transgression and profound regret.

      To Thea, it seemed glaringly bizarre that Saul should carry on as if nothing had happened. In his eyes, however, nothing had happened. Why wouldn’t he want to chat about the new place? Why shouldn’t he twirl her in his arms and place celebratory kisses on her face? Naturally, he’d want to express the anxiety her disappearance had caused him. And of course he was eager to discuss mortgage minutiae. Of course he was going to ask her if she was all right. Of course he was going to comment that she looked pale and tired and of course he’d automatically place his palm tenderly on her forehead to assess her temperature. And of course Thea wanted to scream you evil deviant sod what the fuck do you think you are doing screwing hookers when you have me?

      But she didn’t. Not because Alice had told her to bite it back but because suddenly she found herself obsessed with a perverse mission of sorts. When they went to bed, she instigated sex: athletic, urgent, ravenous sex. She had a point, not love, to make. She had to feel him overcome with hunger for her. She needed to sense that his passion for her could send him to the verge of frenzy. So she writhed and gasped and twisted herself in mock abandon. She faked the pleasure of every thrust and grind. She let her voice lie most convincingly. What she sought was to analyse Saul’s every move and groan. She needed to assess his response. Was he loving it? Did fucking her absorb and sate him utterly? She scrutinized his every hump and groan, evaluated the length and intensity of his climax and studied his breathing pattern and facial expressions throughout.

      There was absolutely no doubt about it, she drove the man wild. Why the hell, then, was he paying for sex elsewhere?

      ‘Christ, that was good,’ Saul declared, post-coital triumph softening into affectionate gratitude. He rolled towards Thea, his hand gently cupping her breast while he kissed the tip of her nose.

      And do you say that to all the women? Thea wondered, turning away from him, gulping against the swell of nausea.

      ‘That’ll certainly put me to sleep with a smile on my face,’ Saul chuckled, switching off the light, spooning against her and nuzzling the nape of her neck.

      It all felt dirty. As if everything needed a good scrub and a boil wash. Saul’s sheets. Saul’s bathroom. Saul’s crockery. Thea’s body.

      ‘I have Pilates three times this week,’ she announced after a lengthy, scalding-hot shower the next morning. Actually she had only the one class booked. Saul nodded as he tucked into two croissants on account of Thea claiming no appetite. ‘And Alice and I are going to the cinema tonight.’

       No, we’re not – but Alice’ll cover for me.

      ‘Busy bee!’ Saul said affectionately. ‘You’d better start packing too.’

      Oh, God. My flat. I have just over a fortnight.

      ‘Yes,’ Thea agreed, ‘lots to sort out.’

      ‘But we’re off to my parents this weekend, remember?’

      ‘This weekend? Oh. Oh, God. I forgot.’

       I did forget. It’s true.

      ‘Yes – but it isn’t a problem, is it? They’re looking forward to seeing you again.’

      ‘It’s just that I promised Alice I’d—’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Don’t worry. We’ll go another time.’

      ‘But you’ll still go? You must, Saul – they’ll be so disappointed.’

      ‘Yes – I’ll go. See if you can change whatever it is with Alice?’

      ‘I’ll try.’

       No, I won’t.

      Thea couldn’t leave Saul’s flat fast enough, inventing an early booking at the Being Well. Yet, by the time she arrived at work, she sat alone in her room at the top and felt like running all the way back to Saul’s. An hour later, she felt intense hatred. By lunchtime she was so confused that she wondered whether she’d imagined it all. During the afternoon, all doubt had been blasted away by pure anger. By teatime she was exhausted. When Saul phoned her, his voice made her shudder. She couldn’t possibly countenance seeing him at all while her emotions were so varied and raw. She feigned flu and managed to avoid him for five days.

The Oldest Trade

      I never noticed before. I never noticed, but suddenly I see that the world is full of prostitutes. Or is it that I’m becoming obsessed? Only a month ago the world seemed a very nuptial place – everywhere I looked I saw brides and weddings and everything pointed to love and romance. De Beers’ adverts on buses. The local church festooned with flowers. Honeymoon special in the ‘Escape’ section of the Observer. Now my world is rife with the world’s oldest trade. I’ve just been to my local newsagent’s. I never before stopped to read those hand-written cards in the window. I couldn’t believe it – an alarming number of them offer ‘exotic massage’ or ‘adult fun’ or ‘toys and role play’. One advertised ‘dominatrix. Nice flat.’ What does Mr Patel think he’s doing, condoning all of this? And the newspaper I’ve just bought has three different scandals involving hookers – a politician caught kerb crawling, a police raid on a vice ring in suburbia and a respected actor caught with an escort and Class A drugs in a Leeds hotel. If I’d bought a tabloid, I bet there’d be even more stories.

       Have you ever noticed how every local high street has a dodgy massage/sauna establishment? But have you ever seen anyone actually go in or come out? You should see the phone box near work, it’s awash with cards advertising the services of Asian Nymph, Busty Blonde, Thai Princess, Fantasia Twins and scores of other unlikely-named sex workers. Who uses phone boxes nowadays anyway? Doesn’t everyone have a mobile? Are they there only as a pinboard for pimps? I noticed that two of the cards have the same photo but with different names and phone numbers. As if, in the end, all the punter requires is a nice, accommodating vagina: surface details are interchangeable or irrelevant. Perhaps it simply doesn’t matter what she looks like.

       Are they prettier than me?

       Are they better in bed than I am?

       How much does it cost?

       How much does Saul pay?

       How much money has СКАЧАТЬ