Free The Chocolate Run by Dorothy Koomson Page A

see Greg again, not in that sense. I’d become like Kristin Scott Thomas in Four Weddings and a Funeral , hanging around someone who went off with other women while I played the dutiful mate.
    I crammed another piece of chocolate in my already full mouth.
    Did I want that? Did I want Greg moaning another woman’s name as if it was the most delicious thing ever to enter his mouth?
    The thought dawned slowly but clearly: no. Not at all.
    Much as I might not want him right now, much as I might not want him at all, I didn’t want him going near anyone else. Also, it’s not every day you get the biggest tart in Yorkshire offering you him. Exclusivit y. That’d be like a chocolate manufacturer making chocolate, only for me. Amber Nectar Chocolate. Just for me . . . OK, stop right there or you’ll implode with excitement. Get back to the matter in hand.
    Greg. Exclusivity. I ate another few pieces of chocolate to be on the safe side.
    I returned to the living room. Greg had done as I’d instructed: he hadn’t moved. Not a millimetre. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He was already doing exactly as I told him. Get him to comply with the little things, and complicity with the big things – like not shagging anyone else – was sure to follow, no? I returned to my place on the sofa and crossed my legs under me again. ‘Go on then, put your numbers where your mouth is.’
    Ten minutes later, Greg was left with fifteen (fifteen out of ninety-five) numbers on his mobile – I took great pleasure in watching him wince as he deleted each one – and I had three sheets of women’s names and numbers to slip into the book and destroy at my earliest convenience. ‘So . . .?’ Greg asked.
    ‘So, let’s take it really, really, really slowly, OK?’
    A grin spread across his face, catching light in his Minstrelcoloured eyes.
    ‘And we mustn’t tell the other two until we’re sure we’re going to be together for a while. I went out with one of Jen’s boyfriend’s friends once and when it ended it was a total nightmare. It nearly split up Jen and her man, not to mention the trouble it caused between Jen and me. I don’t want us messing up what they’ve got. So, let’s agree, we say nothing about us for six months. At least six months.’
    ‘Six months,’ Greg agreed, and crawled across the floor towards me. As he did so, fingers of terror curled around my heart.

chapter seven
    champagne buddy
    ‘OK, total honesty. What do you really think about me and Matt moving in together?’ Jen said, settling back on my sofa with a huge glass of wine. She could, it was half-term so she didn’t have to get up early in the morning for work.
    Greg had left when the evening episode of Neighbours started. I could tell he was angling for an invitation to stay by the way he kept going on about how knackered he was. I’d told him it was Tuesday night, which was Jen night, so I’d handed him his jacket and bag and said I’d see him at the weekend.
    Seven years ago I hit upon the idea to start over in London and lived with my mum and stepdad for nine months while I got myself together. It was perfect . . . for reminding me that I needed at least 200 miles between me and my family, so I returned to Leeds for good. Since then, Jen and I made sure we met up at least once a week on Tuesday nights for dinner. On alternate weeks we’d go to each other’s flat – one of us would cook dinner and the visitor would provide the wine and dessert. Often we’d stay over if we were up late talking.
    However, this Tuesday, I’d ordered a curry. I hadn’t been shopping over the weekend – another result of having sex – (I’d forgotten how much was involved in sex. It wasn’t simply a meeting of two bodies, it was not having time or energy to buy food. Not having the inclination to do your work. And a hell of a lot of tidying up) so my cupboards were Old Mother Hubbard bare. We’d eaten so now it was down to the heavy talk. ‘To be