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Oh God, I hoped so.
The text came through before I’d even cleared away.
Jason: That was intense. I’m sorry. It’s been a tough weekend.
My reply was easy.
Don’t be sorry. I’m not. xx
I got myself off on the living room floor, tangled in shackles with his cum still on my face, and then I had a fucking good shower.
And brushed my teeth.
Twice.
***
Gemma
Monday mornings aren’t my favourite, especially not with Tessa banging on my door at 8 a.m. I opened my eyes with a groan.
She was fresh in from a night shift, the first I’d really seen of her all weekend.
She slapped the newspaper down on the bed, headline clear as day for me to read.
Chelsea scores! Rawlings 1 – 0 Redfern
“Oh my fucking God,” I said. “What the fuck?”
Tess flicked it open to the centre spread where Chelsea greeted me in full colour, sprawled across the pages in a black and gold scarf, and not much else.
“Good night at the club, then?”
I scanned the text.My dirty night with Singers legend, Jason Redfern. He was so good, so hot... we made love at mine, until the sun came up, and he told me I was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
“This is utter bullshit,” I said. “She tried to kiss him and he pushed her away. She slept here, cried for about three hours straight.”
“Seems she’s had chance to think things over,” Tessa said. “I guess she got what she wanted. She always wanted to pull a footballer. Must have figured it didn’t have to be in real life.”
“This isn’t right, Tessa. She’s lying.”
She shrugged. “She won’t be the first, and she won’t be the last. Her five minutes of fame, hey? She’s always wanted it.”
“That’s someone’s life. He’s married, and he really wasn’t interested.”
“He’s probably got a few million in the bank and more shit to worry about than Chelsea’s little tall tale. He’ll be used to it.”
I read some more. An absolute load of horseshit. “This isn’t such a little tall tale, Tess. It’s pure fantasy.”
“You know what she’s like. She probably thinks this is her best shot. Pull her up on it, then, if it means that much to you.”
“Oh, I will,” I said. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Chelsea tried her best to avoid me. It took me all afternoon to track her down, finally running into her outside her flat while she pretended to dodge reporters. Reporters outside Chelsea’s flat — just what she’d always wanted. She looked thoroughly bemused as I turned up, and shoved me inside faster than a lickety-split, before I could open my mouth to the papers, no doubt.
“Hi,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Cut the crap.” I shoved the paper at her.
