Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd Read Free Book Online Page A

troubled silence.
    ‘But I’m not listed yet,’ I replied.
    ‘I rang your old place. Someone gave me your new number.’
    ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, making a mental note to tell my friends not to be so free with my details.
    ‘So what about Beth?’ he asked. ‘You’re obviously not an Elizabeth. Is that Beth in its own right? Or are you –’
    ‘Bethany,’ I said, glad we were back on safer ground. I shifted a cushion and wriggled to lie full length on the sofa. ‘But I prefer it shortened. I’m not a Bethany. I’m a Beth. My father chose Bethany because –’
    ‘No histories,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t want to know about your parents or your pet rabbit. I don’t want to know your birthplace or your star sign. I like purity. Take people as you find them. Much more interesting.’
    ‘Maybe,’ I replied, settling into the conversation, though I’d no idea where it was leading. ‘But background can be interesting too. Or helpful.’
    ‘Yeah?’ he challenged. ‘So tell me something about your background that I might find interesting. Or helpful even.’
    I did my CV in my head: literature at university; bumming around; hotch-potch jobs in arts admin and bookshops; falling in and out of love far too often; voice-over work; set up Body Language. Was any of that interesting?
    ‘I once had sex in the grounds of Kenilworth Castle,’ I said.
    He gave a short, quiet laugh. ‘Who with?’
    ‘That’s history,’ I replied, pleased he wanted to know more. ‘It’s neither interesting nor useful.’
    ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘Tell me another.’
    ‘I once had sex in St Ann’s Well Gardens.’ This revealing of my titillating little secrets thrilled me. I hoped he would find it intriguing, arousing even.
    He laughed again. ‘That’s in Hove. Congratulations. Who with?’
    ‘History.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’
    ‘It was pitch black. We could hardly see each other. We were near some bushes. We fucked.’
    ‘Do you like fucking outdoors?’
    ‘I’ve only done it three times. But, yeah, I like it.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I like the sun. It makes me feel horny.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because you don’t wear many clothes. Your skin’s out in the open, getting all warm and slightly sticky. It feels good. And it’s easy for your lover to touch you. Take off two items of clothes and you’re virtually naked. And knowing that, when you’re just walking in the sun, is so horny. It makes you want to fuck. But usually it’s impossible. People. So you’ve got to go home.’
    ‘What was the third?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The third. You said you’d only done it three times. What was the third?
    ‘Ford train station.’
    ‘Who with?’
    ‘History.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘In the past.’
    ‘Pitch black?’
    ‘No, broad daylight.
    ‘Sunshine?’
    ‘Yes. Brilliant sunshine.’
    ‘Tell me about it. Tell me everything.’
    I paused, made helpless by the ending of his quickfire questions. I couldn’t just launch into a story. Did he want to lie back and listen while I regaled him with smutty anecdotes? Did he see me as a telephone sex worker? Cheaper than an 0898 version?
    ‘What were you wearing?’ he prompted.
    Should I? Dare I? I’d never met this guy; couldn’t picture his face. But in a way that made it easier. If I’d known him properly, I might have felt embarrassed. But he was disembodied, just a voice on the phone. And I liked his voice; I liked the things he said.
    ‘I was wearing a denim skirt,’ I began. ‘I’m wearing itnow, actually. It’s one of my favourite things. It’s A-line, comes down to about my knees. It’s cute.’
    ‘Mm-hm. Is that what you were wearing earlier?’
    ‘Yes.’ I hated the reminder of Martin, of how I’d let him seduce me in the window for the benefit of this Ilya guy.
    ‘Very cute,’ he said. ‘Especially when it’s halfway up your thigh because some bloke’s trying to get into your knickers. Is it the same man? The Ford one and this