Page 25 of Untether

SIMONE (OFF-CAMERA): I’ve known you for over a decade, darling, and admired you greatly as a journalist and reporter.AndI’ve had a front-row seat to the media shit storm you’ve been publicly dragged into this past year. All of which leads me to ask you why the actual fuck you’re putting yourself up for this?

ME: [Laughs] I’ve asked myself that question at least fifty times a day since I concocted this idea in my head, and the most accurate answer I can give you is that I honestly feel like I have no choice.

If I thought this was just an altruistic project, then I probably wouldn’t have the guts to see it through. And if I thought it was just a passion project for me, then I’d probably see it as too self-indulgent to justify.

But, the truth is, it’s both.

I’ve seen things in my time as a reporter and newsreader that I can never un-see—things that haunt my dreams. And I’ve feared for my safety and the safety of my crew far more than I would have liked. But I can sit here and tell you as afriend that I have never, ever felt more terrified about anything in my professional life than I do now.

SIMONE: [Softly] And why is that, do you think?

ME: Because of everything. Because of how shitty the past year of being hounded by the press has been—and I mean the tabloidsandthe broadsheets. Because of my reputation as a sensible, trusted newsreader who’s known for shooting her mouth off, sure, but who’s always carried herself with professionalism. I hope, anyway.

But most of all because I’m a forty-six-year-old woman, and our society as a whole isn’t interested in the sex lives of perimenopausal or menopausal women. It’s more than that—we’re not even supposed to have sex lives.

To address the elephant in the room up front, my ex-husband is probably being slapped on the back by his cronies in the House of Lords for having been outed as fucking countless women, women far younger than him. And the press excoriated him, sure, but they didn’t condemn his sexuality. Just his infidelity. I, on the other hand, am not deemed by society to have a sex life worth taking an interest in.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m coming at this whole thing from a place of exceptional privilege. I’m a wealthy white woman who can technically still call herself Lady Aida Russell. I’m not complaining because the press isn’t speculating about whether I’m getting any.

But don’t you think it’s interesting?

Of all the thousands of articles my research team has collated over the past year, I haven’t seen one speculating over whether I’ll take a lover. Because it doesn’t even occur to anyone to wonder.

So, to answer your question, I’m doing this for myself and for every other women out there in their forties andfifties or beyond, who’s been written off as having no sex life and certainly no sexual identity.

My identity has been tied up for so long with my career and my marriage, and shame on me for letting it take a divorce to kindle that spark of interest in who I really am beyond all that. This is my chance to untether myself from that very limited picture of who I am, and I hope it gives other women my age pause for thought.

I hope it gives them any extra courage or confidence they may need to examine the desires and needs and even kinks that make them fully rounded, flesh and blood humans who choose to live the fullest expression of their human experience.

I’ve never shied away from thorough research or tough reporting, but digging into and reporting on my own desires is going to be the toughest challenge I’ve ever faced, hands down.

16

CAL

‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake,’ I tell Maddy. I swear to God, she’s like an annoying little sister. She’s far more annoying than I ever remember my actual sister being.

‘What?’ she asks, giving me her best innocent, doe-eyed look. ‘Belle and I are just excited about meeting your girlfriend, that’s all.’

‘You know damn well she’s not my girlfriend,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘She’s my… business associate.’

‘Of course she is.’ Maddy narrows her eyes at me slyly. ‘And you’re going to work her so hard, aren’t you?’

‘Zach,’ I grit out, turning to him in frustration, but he just laughs.

‘If you think I have an ounce of influence over her, you’re deluded,’ he tells me with a worshipful look at his girlfriend, and I sigh, because Maddy does whatever the fuck she wants and none of us can do anything about it.

I have to admit, she and Belle both look incredible in the perfectly dim light of Alchemy’s bar. Unlike The Playroom next door, which is a writhing, pulsing mass of bodies onany given night, our bar is a sophisticated hangout for members and their friends.

The vibe on this side of the heavy double doors that separate socialising from sin is fully clothed and refined. The main focal point is the huge bar that stretches almost the length of the room. It’s crafted from pink onyx that’s luminous in the glow of its backlights. The crowd is every inch as refined, as expensive, as the decor, but even in a Thursday-night sea of beautiful people, Belle and Maddy are the true pearls.

They’re on low bar stools next to each other, thick as thieves and complementary as fuck. Belle sits erect, skin and hair and aura all pure gold after summering with Rafe in Cap Ferrat. She’s in a black jumpsuit that consists, as far as I can work out, of swishy black trousers and two elongated triangles that cover her perfect tits and tie at the back of her neck. Modest it’s not, but her sheer allure, and the beauty of her figure, makes it classy.

Maddy has darker hair and paler, if equally flawless skin. Her glossy brown mane is in long, tumbling curls tonight, and she’s in a cream mini dress that shows off her killer legs. Zach has a hand firmly clamped on one thigh, while Rafe is draped around Belle like a scarf.

It makes me laugh.

My friends are hopelessly besotted, poor fuckers. I should take a photo and show them how pathetic they look.

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