Page 2 of The Naughty List

If only I had the money to get there, but Ihaveno money. Fifty-seven pounds in my bank account to last me until the end of the month. Three weeks of nothing but pasta. Amazing. At least I don’t have to share it with my prick of an ex anymore.

I can’t stand the call any longer. I’m welling up. I pretend I hear something at my door, turning around onscreen.

“Is that Connor?” Mum asks, hopeful she’ll see him.

“No. A delivery, I think. I ordered a takeout.”

“Go get it,” Dad says. “We’ll catch you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I’m holding my breath as we wave our goodbyes and I hit the end call button. Takeout would be a luxury. I’d love a hot spicy pizza with a side of chicken wings. I look at Connor’s fucking rucksack and want to throw it out of the window. Piece of shit.

My credit cards are maxed out from trying to support him. Years of investment for nothing. I’m working as many hours as I can in a job I hate, stacking shelves in a supermarket for minimum wage. I’ve been paying bills we should have both been paying between us, if he’d ever had enough money for them.

It’s my own fault, though. We always make our own choices, and I chose him every step of the way. That’s my own bad to have to live with. Seven years of life wasted on someone who cast me aside like a piece of nothing when something better came along. Carly isn’t just agroupie.She hasconnections,or says she does. Whatever.

I close my laptop and put it on the bedside table. Moping will only lead to more tears, and I have to function. I go downstairs. So, what’s dinner going to be? Pasta, or pasta, or pasta? Ben has left half of the pans over the worktop again in our grimy shared kitchen, spatulas filthy and unwashed. Jackass. I’m still in my work uniform as I clear up his mess, trying my best not to get any grime on my shirt. I can’t be fucked to wash it again tonight. I can’t really be fucked to do anything.

I’ve always found rage easier than tears, so I take it out on the kitchen mess with a scourer, scrubbing like a savage. FUCK YOU, CONNOR. JUST FUCK YOU.

I hate how I miss him. His cocky smile, his guitar strumming, his laughter when we were rolling around in hysterics at stupid YouTube videos. But now – three weeks in – more than anything, I miss sex.

I miss fucking him all night long. I miss the way he used to be a filthy freak of a sex god as we got twisted up in dirty games. How he’d make me come over and over with every session, like a woman possessed.

Toys will never, ever fill the void, and I’m really not up for a relationship yet. Not even dating. It’s another bullshit angle of the breakup I’ll have to live with for now. I’ll add it to the list.

I eat my pasta on my bed, then fire my laptop back up. I check out flights to Sydney yet again, and then I check out my available credit. I’m over the limit practically everywhere, so not even the dubious credit agencies will give me a shot.

There is no doubt about it. I need more money.

I could work more shifts at the supermarket, but I already do seven days and two evenings on top. I was so caught up in being Connor’s manager when he made it big that I didn’t bother going to uni, so I have no career ladder to climb. So, what’s left? What have I got going in my favour?

There’s only one answer to that. I’ve been toying with it for nearly a week now, since the tears stopped flowing like a river.

I catch sight of myself in my wardrobe mirror, thanking my lucky stars that I was blessed with Mum’s looks and not Dad’s. I have her frame – long legs, tiny waist, huge tits, and the same big, blue eyes that she has. Mine look a lot more striking with my dyed jet-black hair than hers do with natural blonde.

I’ve been a goth since before I met Connor, so I’m a perfectionist with thick cat flicks and fake lashes, and I can pout like a dream in deep red lipstick.

So, how to put it to good use?

I log into one of my dirty online chat groups. I used to read out some of my conversations to Connor, but now they are all for me. I browse through the content, remembering some discussions about sex work and building up a paying fanbase, and then I notice one of the online member icons.Ebony. I’ve known Ebony through chat threads for years, and we’ve had some private conversations – enough that I know what she does for a living.

I call up a chat window.

Hey.

Such an idiot introduction out of nowhere, but she types right back.

Hey, how are you? How is the rockstar doing?

Jesus Christ. Did I really talk about him so much that everyone in the world asks about him? I guess I did.

For the first time since he left me, I’m honest about reality.

He left me for a pretty little redhead groupie called Carly.

There is no sad faced emoji in response, or anythere, there, you’ll soon feel better. Just one word…

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