Chapter 10

CHASTITY

If anything is going to sort out mixed emotions, it’s a Monday morning. Working for myself is a joy. My hours are mostly my own, but sometimes, I still have to drag myself out of bed early. Like today, for instance when we’re shooting a scene in a five-star city hotel. I’d tell you which one, but I don’t want to get kicked out of the place before we’ve filmed today’s actors, Sasha Savage and Nathan Cox, screwing against a wall of windows, the dramatic backdrop of the city beyond.

I take pride in the beauty of my work. There’s the obvious beauty in sex, yes, but I also like to make sure my sets are top-notch. I have a small studio, but I much prefer filming on location; Prague, Barcelona, Ibiza, and places closer to home. Like my aunt Camilla’s potting shed.

Travel cup in hand, I place it on the roof of my Mini Cooper. Yes, I suppose in some ways I am that clichéd city girl. But not only is my car adorable, she’s also very cool. For instance, she has a fabulous name. None of this Mini or Cooper business. It’s Minerva, like the Roman Goddess of warfare. Which is pretty apt as driving in London is a battle.

I pull open the rear passenger side door to throw in my bag, when a deep voice calls out in greeting from the other side of the road.

‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

Is that . . . the waiter from the restaurant? What was his name again?

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ I reply, looking up momentarily into the clear blue sky. This is the song of my people—British people. We’re all about the weather. It’s so erratic, it’s probably been ingrained into our psyche somehow. But it’s also a safe conversation starter. Polite, I suppose. Bugger it. What was his name again? Throwing my bag on the back seat, I close the door.

‘How’s your head this morning?’ Now that wasn’t so polite, and neither is the way he’s looking at me, or the way his mouth hitches up in one corner.

Hmph. I refrain from swapping him a judge-y look for his judge-y comment, though I glance across at him again. The bastard is chuckling and from his garden gate, it seems. Someone new moved in recently. So he’s my new neighbour and not some random out running. Pity because I could’ve told him to jog the fuck on.

On any other day, I might take a moment to appreciate the sight of a fit bloke dressed for the gym, especially one as easy on the eyes as him. But not today. Today, my head is a mess from my conversation yesterday with Flynn. We aren’t supposed to be building a friendship. He was just a means to get my orgasm back. Which brings me to another sore point in my day. Quite literally sore, from overwork, because my orgasm hasn’t returned. So fucking much for that plan.

‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’ My answer is crisp, if not a little belated, as I clear the back of the car on my way to the driver’s side. I am fine, if I discount the fact that I almost gave myself friction burns this morning.

‘Have a good day in the stacks,’ he calls. His words almost cause me to falter mid step. How in the hell does he know about . . . Ohhh. It dawns on me that he’s referring to my fictious career as a historian—a historian of the phallus—and not my fantasy of Atonement’s library scene. Bloody Flynn Phillips dominating my bloody thoughts. He has single-handedly spoiled the start to my day, and he’s not even here!

With a weak wave and an equally weak smile, I open the driver’s side door and slip into the seat before pulling away from the curb. In my rear-view mirror, his assessing eyes follow me down the street.

~*~

‘Come on, you. Shove up.’

‘Oh, you are in such a crabby mood this morning,’ Hillary, my latest hire, moves along the love seat at the end of the bed. Just the two of us are here at the moment, though Paisley is due soon, along with the two stars of the show. ‘Here,’ Hills says, shoving a banana in my hand. ‘Your blood sugar must be low.’

I murmur my thanks as I take it, peel it savagely, and bite a whacking great piece off the end. ‘What?’

‘You’re making my puddings feel all queer,’ he says with a shivery wince. I’ve no idea what his “puddings” are, and I know better than to ask. And despite the misleading name, Hillary isn’t actually a girl, but a Christopher; a one Christopher Hillary.

‘Darling,’ I say, one brow raised. ‘You are every inch the queer.’

‘You say the nicest things,’ he responds, fluffing imaginary hair. Not that he doesn’t have hair—he has plenty. Red and wiry, it covers both his face and his head. Stylishly so. He’s quite the hipster. And as camp as a row of pink tents—pink tents festooned with floral bunting. He’s also a film student, which makes him super useful and a bit of a love.

As you can imagine, in my line of work, it can be pretty difficult getting suitable staff. I don’t have a huge budget because Fast Girls doesn’t produce films for the mainstream porn market. My customers are subscribers to my website, and mainly women, though sometimes couples, and are interested in something other than mass-marketed porn. They want tasteful. They want seduction. They want fucking from something other than the perspective of a man deep-throating the equivalent of a Barbie doll. That’s not sexy at all.

But it is hard hiring suitable crew. I’m told there’s a certain awkwardness in the job—no matter if you’re dealing with lighting or running errands—lurking in the room fully clothed while trying not to look like you’re watching people fucking, I suppose. Once the initial worry of being turned on, and worse still, the possibility of being called out for it, is lost—which doesn’t take long because, believe me, there’s nothing sexy in the production of porn—I’m told it still makes people seriously question their life choices.

But not me. I make a good living out of this, and I’d say the same goes for the adult actors. And while they themselves always look like they’re enjoying themselves, I know that’s not the case. It’s part of the fantasy, and they deliver because they’re professionals. And if they didn’t like it, I’m sure they’d find some other form of work.

‘Shitty morning?’ Hills asks, who is officially my part-time production assistant while he studies film at a local university.

‘How can you tell?’

‘I’m a sensitive soul. An empath. Not to mention your aura,’ he adds, waving his hand in the general direction of my head, ‘is sort of the colour of . . . fucked off.’

‘Then my aura speaks the truth.’ I pause for a beat. ‘What colour is your aura today?’

‘Pink fairy dust,’ he answers with a straight face. ‘Did your gorgeous brother piss on your cornflakes this morning?’ Hills has a crush on Max, one that I tease him about mercilessly, but I’m not in the mood today.

‘Max has gone to Goa.’

Hillary pulls an expression of emphatic disapproval. ‘It’s all right for some.’

‘Isn’t it just. My mother probably paid for him to go just to get him out from under my influence.’

‘Families,’ he says with a shrug. ‘So are you going to tell me why your face is as long as an undertaker’s tape measure?’

‘I left my travel mug on the roof of my car and drove off.’

But that’s not the only reason. In this morning’s mail, I discovered a brochure I’d recently sent for when I arrived at the hotel. Not shoes or pretty underwear, but a brochure of men. Statistic of men, anyway.

Last week, I’d been invited to Ella’s little boy’s birthday party, which was less than fun. Not because it was filled with children and noise, but rather I was the only woman there without a child of her own. Paisley was there, of course, and technically, she doesn’t have a child. Sorcha is Keir’s daughter, but I feel like Paisley doesn’t count that, given that she isn’t heading rapidly towards her thirtieth birthday.

To cut a long story short, I got home late afternoon and opened a bottle of red almost as soon as I’d stepped through the door. One glass led to two and two led to a third. And a third led to a website for a fertility clinic. Hence, my brochure of sperm donor details.

I thought I’d feel more excited about it. I’m not going to think about it. I mean it. It’s not like I’m thirty yet!

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he huffs. ‘That’s not worth getting your knickers in a knot over. You could’ve stopped at Starbucks.’ Now it’s my turn to pull a face. Starbucks, bleurgh. ‘What am I saying?’ he adds, slapping his forehead. ‘We’re in a hotel!’

Note to self: Never go apply for MI5. Espionage isn’t for you.

‘Ohhh! Hillary said knickers,’ Paisley says, breezing into the room. ‘Careful. Say it ten more times and you’ll turn hetro.’

‘Sickening, isn’t it?’ His gaze flicks to me, then back to Paisley as he makes a show of giving her a thorough inspection, up then down.

‘What?’ Paisley trills, her own gaze following his as though expecting to find something wrong with her outfit.

‘You had sex this weekend. Lots and lots of sex.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ She straightens, all smiles and bright eyes. ‘And what’s wrong with you two?’

‘Because we haven’t.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ I reply.

‘Right!’ he scoffs, crossing one leg over. ‘Is that not a face of extreme sexual frustration?’ Hills points a finger in my direction but directs his words at my friend.

‘I’m keeping out of this,’ she says, laughing as she slips out of her coat and hangs it in the open closet. ‘I have something for you.’ As a grumbling Hillary moves from the love seat to begin unpacking our gear in the other room, Paisley slides in next to me. ‘Give me that,’ she says, taking the flaccid banana skin from my hand. ‘When I paid the bill at brunch, that waiter guy asked me to give you this.’ She slides a business card into my hand.

‘Tate Peters,’ I read aloud. ‘I saw him today.’

‘Where?’

‘Looks like he’s my neighbour.’ I shrug, not really wanting to get into this. Since Paisley paired off with Keir, she’s been a little militant about these sorts of things.

‘Maybe that’s how he knew your name!’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Maybe he’s taken a parcel in for you, or maybe your mail was delivered there by mistake? But at least we now know he’s solvent and not a waiter squatting on millionaire row.’ Looking up, I frown.

‘What has that got anything to do with it?’ It’s nothing to be fabulously impressed over. I live in Chelsea. You can’t buy a spot on a park bench for a million.

‘Because I know you. And a starving artist isn’t your cup of tea.’ The latter she delivers in a terrible rendition of a British accent.

‘You sound like Dick Van Dyke, even if you are right.’ I want a man ready to settle down, not one who needs babying.

‘Thank’e gov’nor.’ She doffs an invisible cap.

‘Careful, someone will steal you and shove you up a chimney.’

‘Are you two talking about lesbian porn in there?’

‘No!’ we yell simultaneously.

‘Good looking, solvent, owns his own business, according to that card.’ She pauses from counting off on her fingers, pointing at the business card that speaks of quality and expense. Tate Peters, Owner. ‘Appears sane,’ she adds, continuing with her count, ‘and he likes you.’ Her smile is a touch indulgent in response to my scrunched expression. ‘At least you won’t have to travel far in your walk of shame?’

‘And if he turns out to be a terrible person, I’ll have to move or spend the rest of my life sneaking around to avoid him.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she grumbles.

‘That’s what I said,’ yells Hills.

‘Just go for a drink with the man before you decide he’s giving out Fatal Attraction vibes. Unless there’s something or someone keeping you from dating?’

I make a noncommittal noise, our conversation halting as Hillary appears rather dramatically. Framed by the connecting double doors, he throws his head back, his hands clasped at his chest.

‘Very Gloria Swanson,’ Paisley teases.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I add, ‘you’re ready for your close-up now.’

‘It’s the kind of close-up that worries me,’ she continues. ‘I’m not holding the pussy light up for him.’ And yes, that is an actual thing. For close-ups and I’m saying no more.

‘Are you two quite finished?’ he asks. Paisley and I look at each other. I nod, and she shrugs. ‘You’ve totally stolen my dramatic effect,’ he grumbles, one hand now on his cocked hip.

‘A do-over?’ I suggest. Hills shrugs before making a show of theatrically “centring himself”.

‘Ladies and straight people, as Fast Girl Media’s official cock-ficionado, I’d like to announce that your stars are here.’

‘Sasha’s arrived?’ I ask. She’s not the best time keeper, I’ve found, though she is a lovely girl. Really sweet.

‘She has. As has Nathan. He’s currently in the bathroom preparing. You know.’ Hills ducks his head an inch, the small movement speaking volumes. Not that it matters as he makes a swift rude gesture with his hand.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t offered to help him with that,’ Paisley says, picking up her hefty makeup bag.

‘Nathan doesn’t even go gay for pay,’ Hills pouts. ‘But it’s just as well I work on straight shoots, really. All those hetero pheromones flying around keep me in line and stop me from the pet shop dilemma.’

‘What’s a pet shop dilemma?’ she asks, slinging the bag over her arm.

‘Let’s just say my flatmates wouldn’t be impressed with me coming home with handfuls of irresistible and adorably cute merchandise.’ Paisley sniggers. ‘And boss lady here wouldn’t like me coming on the cute merchandise.’

As the three of us make our way into the other room, I slap Hillary’s butt.

‘Sexual harassment in the workplace!’ he trills.

‘You should be so lucky.’

‘Don’t I know it, babe.’