The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle de Jour Read Free Book Online Page B

you told her about me?’ I wonder if it’s the girl from the club, the one he was talking to when we left for the hotel.
    ‘She knows.’
    ‘She’s cool with that?’
    ‘As long as we don’t sleep together again, yes.’
    ‘Well. I …’ Never expected he would find someone first. ‘I’m so happy for you.’ The waiter comes back with our drinks: N’s a lemonade, mine a whisky and soda.
    ‘What’s wrong.’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Look at me.’ I look up. ‘You’re not crying, for God’s sake, are you?’
    ‘Me? Never.’ I blow my nose into the heavy cloth napkin. ‘It’s just I’m so happy for you. You’re moving on. This could be the one.’
    ‘Statistically speaking, probably not,’ N shrugs.
    ‘I know the look in your eyes. This one’s not a shag. She’s different.’ He doesn’t deny it. ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Henrietta.’
    ‘To you and Henrietta, then,’ I say.
    ‘No chance of a last go with you?’ N asks. ‘For old times’.’
    ‘I thought you said you told her we were done.’
    ‘Can’t blame a man for trying,’ he smiles.
    jeudi, le 21 octobre
    How to fuck someone and still be friends, part II
    1 It’s okay to cry. As long as you happen to be watching a shamelessly romantic film at the time. Then you can tell anyone who catches you that it was Richard Curtis what did it, not the prospect of growing old alone while your friends go on to blissfully happy paired domesticity.
    2 Resist urge to leap straight into a rebound relationship. Also not a good time to be thinking about visiting animal shelters.
    3 Do not, under any circumstances, ring your ex. Resist temptation to replace vague shame at not even being able to hold on to a fuck buddy with acute shame of acknowledging your own desperation.
    4 Find replacement activity for sex. Personally speaking, the toilet has never been so clean.
    vendredi, le 22 octobre
    Is there any phrase in the English language more horrifying than ‘work do’? If so, I can’t imagine it.
    It’s not the prospect of seeing people I work with drunk that’s appalling – I survived university thanks to late hours at the library and a tolerance for the inebriation of my friends – it’s the other, unwritten rule of gathering out of hours among people you work with: someone will try to cop off with you.
    After a meal during which I sat next to an impeccably groomed Malaysian girl whose enthusiasm for shopping was of such a level as to actually test my deep and abiding love of comparing handbags, some of the assembled (those who did not have families to return to, presumably, or could happily ignore their obligations for the evening) repaired to a co-worker’s for drinks.
    It was a mistake, I can see in retrospect. By my second year of university I had already learned the cardinal rule of going out: namely, that you don’t need to. Anyone who is still around after last orders won’t care what you do the rest of the night and probably won’t remember you were there, anyway. I should have gone home.
    But I felt buoyed by not having had too awful a time out. Maybe, I thought, I am capable of having social interactions with near-strangers that last longer than an hour. It was only later, when I went to retrieve my shoes from the other side of the sofa, that it all went terribly wrong.
    I was bending over to buckle the ankle straps when I felt a hand on my hip. Someone scooting by to collect a coat, perhaps? Alas, no. It was a very intentional suggestive grab. I stood up and faced Giles.
    His cheeks were flushed with wine and his tie was off, top button unbuttoned. Cripes, I thought. It’s like being in an episode of The Good Life. I smiled weakly. ‘You all right?’
    ‘Are those what I think they are?’ he asked, the hand moving round my flank slightly in the neighbourhood of the top of my stockings.
    ‘Afraid so,’ I said grimly. He must have noticed me leaving work for an appointment the other day, and I thought I’d got away with it –