Page 10 of Happily Never After
‘Yes,’ Liv says robustly. ‘This stuff matters. Take a mouthful of wine if you’re feeling uncomfortable. I’ll go first, if it helps. Trevor may have been a dirty bastard, but at least he knew his way around female anatomy. Do you remember Giles?’
‘Umm, vaguely. Was he the one before Sarah?’
‘That’s him. Utterly clueless. He’d honestly stand more chance of finding a cure for cancer than my clitoris. Women are, unsurprisingly, much better in that department.’
‘That makes sense, I guess.’
‘So, Angus?’
‘He didn’t rock my world in the bedroom, if I’m honest. I mean, it was OK. Nice, even. Sometimes it was purely functional, but that’s normal, isn’t it? To be fair to him, I’m not sure I’m an orgasmic sort of person. Some people just aren’t, are they?’
‘I’ve never heard so much nonsense in all my life!’ she exclaims crossly. ‘There are countless studies out there that show that the female orgasm need be no more elusive than the male one. You just need to be relaxed, understand your body and know how to communicate your needs. Have you readDon’t Hold My Head Downby Lucy-Anne Holmes?’
‘No.’
‘OK, that’s your first bit of homework. I’ve got a copy somewhere; I’ll dig it out for you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try dating a woman for a different perspective? I can thoroughly recommend it.’
‘Thanks, but no. You might be pretty much in the middle of the sexuality spectrum, but I’m afraid I’m fairly hardwired to fancy men.’
‘Fair enough. What about self-pleasure?’
‘Liv!’
‘What? How are you supposed to be able to tell someone else what floats your boat if you’ve never put it in the water yourself?’
Even by her standards, this conversation is direct, and I can feel myself blushing furiously. To make matters worse, Liv is obviously enjoying my discomfort as she laughs uproariously.
‘Let me get this straight,’ she says once she’s caught her breath. ‘Laura Spalding spends happy hours writing brutal murders where she describes the patterns of arterial spray almost lovingly, but is afraid of her own vagina?’
‘I’m not afraid of it! I just don’t want to talk to you about it. Can we drop this now?’
This only serves to set her off again.
‘Oh, honey,’ she breathes eventually. ‘Living with you is going to be even more fun than I imagined.’
‘How are you, darling?’ my mother’s voice asks down the phone a couple of days later. I can’t help noticing that it has that tentative ‘I want to show I care about you but please don’t burst into tears as I’m not sure I know how to handle that’ tone which she’s used fairly consistently since Angus left. To be fair, I did spend quite a lot of time bursting into tears in the early days, both on the phone and when I visited them, so I can’t really blame her.
‘OK, actually,’ I tell her, making my own voice super-bright to try to reassure her. ‘Moving in with Liv was the right choice, I think.’
‘And how is Olivia?’ Now that she’s reassured herself that I’m not about to dissolve into a soggy mess, her tone has shifted to the slight air of disapproval she always has when Liv is mentioned. To be fair to her, I know she also finds Liv ‘a bit much’, and Liv’s ever-shifting sexuality evidently baffles her.
‘She’s good,’ I reply. ‘And Meg absolutely adores her.’
‘I hope she isn’t teaching that dog bad habits,’ Mum says sternly. ‘Angus worked so hard to bring her up well, and it would be a shame for all of that to be undone.’ Mum and Dad have had dogs for as long as I can remember, and they’ve always been rigorously trained. I glance over at the sofa where Meg is happily curled up next to Liv and thank my lucky stars this isn’t a video call.
‘She’s fine, Mum.’
‘And how’s work?’
‘The book is coming along. I’m doing some shifts in Maison Olivia too, which is getting me out of the house.’
‘That’s good. I’m sure you could use the money and you know how we worry about you, cooped up alone all day writing that…stuff.’ It’s safe to say that neither of my parents are wild about me writing crime novels for a living. While my mother’s problem is mainly to do with the genre (‘Why can’t you writenicestories aboutnicepeople, Laura?’), my father thinks writing isn’t a ‘proper’ job and I suspect he’d be delighted if I announced I was jacking it in to become a warehouse manager like my brother Michael. They’ve never asked how much I earn from it, and I’ve never told them, but they’ve always laboured under the misapprehension that I make peanuts and Angus was basically bankrolling me. It’s frustrating, but I know they love me and just want what they think is best for me, so I generally suck it up like I am today.
‘Anyway, the reason for my call,’ Mum continues, ‘is that we haven’t seen you in forever, darling, and we wondered if you’d like to come to lunch on Sunday. Michael will be here with Alison and the children, and I’m sure they’d like to see you too. You can bring Olivia if you like. I’m sure a square meal is the least we can do to thank her for taking you in. It must have been such a worry for you, without Angus there to pay his share ofthe rent and bills. Oh, hang on a minute, your father is saying something. Here, you talk to her, George.’
‘Laura, sweetheart.’ Dad’s voice is also laced with concern. ‘I just wanted to check how things were for you, financially.’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him.
