Dirty Secrets. Jane O'Reilly

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       Chapter Two

      Theo folds his arms, leans back in his chair. ‘You can’t fix yourself with sex,’ he says.

      All the courage I’d pulled together folds in, shrinks, shrivels up inside me and dies. He’s right. Of course I can’t. My inability to fix anything with sex is part of the reason I’m so broken in the first place. ‘You’re right.’ I pick up my paper napkin, fold it in half, smooth the crease. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

      ‘That’s the second time you’ve apologised,’ Theo points out.

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘That’s the third.’

      This time, I bite my tongue.

      ‘OK,’ he says, as if he’s come to a decision. ‘This is how it’s going to work.’ He picks up his cup, drains it. ‘I’m going to give you thirty days’ membership of the club.’

      ‘I thought you said I couldn’t fix myself with sex.’

      ‘This isn’t about sex,’ he says. ‘This is about you. This is about finding out who you are, what makes you tick. You agree to visit the club at least once a week, starting tonight.’

      ‘To do what?’

      ‘Whatever you want,’ he says.

      ‘Whatever I want,’ I repeat softly.

      ‘Yes,’ he says, a slight smile catching the corners of his mouth. ‘Whatever you want.’

      ‘Starting tonight?’

      ‘Starting tonight.’

      I pull in some air, let it out again. ‘The problem is that I don’t know what I want,’ I tell him.

      Theo leans forward, props his elbows on the table. ‘That’s why I’m giving you thirty days,’ he says. ‘So that you can find out.’

      He takes me back to his flat, then, which is a lovely second-floor apartment in Knightsbridge that tells me the club is either extremely expensive, or extremely successful. I suspect a little of both. He shows me around the plush, comfortable living room with its high ceiling and velvet curtains that graze the floor. Then the kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and enormous American-style fridge. ‘Help yourself,’ he says, opening the doors and showing me stacks of bottled water and shelf after shelf of green vegetables. On the top shelf is a chocolate fudge cake. I’d like some of that, I think, but old habits die hard, and I keep it to myself.

      He shows me to my room, which seems plain at first, until I touch the sheets and realise that the cotton is as soft as silk. And the flowers are fresh, the vase crystal, the mattress deep. There’s an en-suite bathroom with a huge walk-in shower and claw-footed tub.

      ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I tell Theo. ‘I always knew that you would. You aren’t married?’

      I know that he’s not. Social media is good for something.

      ‘No,’ he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘Listen, I’ve got some work to do. Will you be all right on your own for a while?’

      ‘Of course.’ I nod, look around the room again. What on earth am I doing here? I should be at home. I should be at work. It was a breakup, not the end of the world.

      ‘Just one thing,’ Theo says. He disappears for a moment, then reappears carrying a glossy black folder and a pen. He sets them both down on top of the oak chest of drawers.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘A few forms I need you to fill in. It won’t take you long.’

      He stands there for a moment longer, as if he’s going to say something, then he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

      I stare at the glossy black folder. I decide to ignore it. I lift my case, which Theo left just inside the door, onto the bed. I unlock it, pull out some of my clothes, then repack them. I don’t even know if I’m going to stay. But I take a shower anyway. The water is heavy and hot and the soaps smell divine, and by the time I’ve finished my skin is flushed, my hair clinging to my neck. I step out of the shower, pull on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and examine myself in the mirror.

      The woman who looks back at me is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her roots need doing. After a moment’s hesitation, I shrug the robe from my shoulders and examine my naked body. It’s not quite as firm as it should be, not quite as toned. If I’d been a better person, if I’d been stronger, I’d have taken care of it. I’d have gone to the gym four times a week like Dave wanted me to. If I’d loved him enough, I’d have sorted myself out.

      Those are his words filling my head. I recognise his tone, and the slow creep of anxiety under my skin. I won’t let it control me. I won’t. I pull the robe back on, march through into the bedroom, flip open the glossy black folder. The first few questions are easy. Name, date of birth, eye colour, height, body type. I select average for every box where average applies.

      Then I turn to the next page, and that’s where things get more difficult. Interests, it says in swirling italics. Tick all that apply. The list is long, and I don’t know what half of them even are. My heart starts to pound hard and fast in my chest, and I grip the pen tighter, feeling shocked and sad and inadequate. What must it be like, I wonder, to be the sort of woman who can confidently work through this list? Who can say yes, I like spanking and group sex but I’m not interested in latex or breath play?

      I flip over to the final page. A single sentence swirls across the top. Tell us about your fantasies.

      I don’t have any, I think to myself, but that’s not quite true.

      I want to feel pleasure in my own body. I want to get back the woman I was before I became this frightened mouse. I wonder what happened to her, why I let her go. I put pen to paper and start to write. Only a few sentences, but written fast before I lose my nerve. Then I open the door and go in search of Theo.

      I find him in the kitchen, sat at the counter with a laptop and more coffee.

      ‘Here,’ I say, shoving the paper in his direction.

      He takes it from me, glances down at it. ‘OK,’ he says. He doesn’t comment on my appearance. ‘I’ll make some calls. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you later.’

      I shut myself in my room, but I can’t sleep. I dress, undress, dress again. None of my clothes feel right. I settle on black trousers and a peach-coloured jumper that makes me feel twenty-eight going on fifty. I’m nervous as hell and I can’t seem to shake it off. But when Theo knocks on the door, I do a good job of pretending to be calm, of hiding my emotions. СКАЧАТЬ