thoughts,â she said, rifling in her pocket for a piece of paper sheâd scribbled on last night. The task had taken hours; sheâd had to get over her embarrassment first, which led to a crisis of confidence. If she baulked at confessing sexy thoughts to herself, how was she going to cope in front of Floyd? Then, once sheâd got over that with a stiff reprimand and a biscuit dunked in tea, she had encountered the hopelessness of her naivety. Her to-do list was all so basic â it was as if she needed L plates. The only way to get over it, she decided innocently, was to do a search of âfemale fantasyâ and âbest positionsâ online. But she was completely unprepared for the never-ending pop-ups which seemed to appear faster than she could delete them. In a daze, she had to mute her laptop in case one of her neighbours heard either the moaning or the language. And now, eek, she was expected to put her inner most insecurities and desires into words.
âReady, Frankie?â Floyd said encouragingly as Leonardo slunk in to see what was happening.
âDo you want to read them or shall I say them out loud?â
âFire away,â he said, âIâm all ears.â
Meanwhileâ¦
Em
The sun-bleached streets passed in a blur as Em gazed out of the window on her bus ride home.
As usual, her feet were killing her, having spent all day marching around the store. But it was this tiredness, this fatigue, she was unused to.
A bump in the road made the bus jerk, and before she knew it, her hand shot to her stomach. She shut her eyes and wondered how sheâd become such a slave to instinct. It betrayed what she had always prided herself on â her ability to box up emotion and apply common sense.
The jolt made her want to get off. It was only when the number forty-two had pulled away that she realized sheâd been on the completely wrong bus and she had ended up the other side of town. What was up with her? And to compound matters, she was bursting for the loo. Sheâd have to go to Lettyâs place which was just round the corner.
Usually Em would have sauntered through the gentrified delights of Lettyâs neighbourhood of Pontcanna, where the streets were lined with bistros, delis and gift shops. But thanks to her brimming bladder, she broke into a trot, like a demented chicken.
Please, God, be in, she thought, finding Flat One on the list of buzzers. âDesperate,â she said by way of hello as Letty invited her into the shared hallway of the grand old building. Em rushed into the ground-floor flat and found the loo, from where she shouted: âYouâve got damp in here, you need to get the landlord to do something about it.â
âWell, thank you, Kirstie Allsopp,â Letty said, stirring something that smelled good as Em reappeared into the kitchen. âHave you thought about opening a charm school?â
Em hung her head, feeling ashamed. âIâm so sorry, I just worry, and thank you for letting me use your loo. Youâve got a lovely place,â she said, much more stylish than Emâs, which was strictly Ikea flatpack.
Letty had turned the blank canvas of magnolia walls, scuffed wooden floorboards and cobwebbed high ceilings into a chic show home, the kind youâd see in an interiors magazine. Sumptuous throws, candles, rugs and lamps dotted the lounge-diner, which had a vast grey L-shaped sofa and a gorgeous dark blue feature wall. Her bedroom resembled a boudoir with its four-poster bed, and sheâd turned the box room into a bijou walk-in wardrobe. While she could do nothing about the shabby kitchen, sheâd perked it up by painting the wooden cabinets a high-gloss white, and sheâd created an extra âroomâ in what was once an overgrown yard with gravel, pots and a table and chairs. But Em wasnât envious, she basked in her friendâs special touch, which covered everything she touched in
Emma Barry & Genevieve Turner