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The Erotic Musings of an Ordinary Girl Anita Bush Š 2013 Beta Version
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Cover design, interior book design, eBook design, and editing by Anita Bush. www.anitabushauthor.wordpress.com The Erotic Musings of an Ordinary Girl Copyright Š 2013 Anita Bush Publisher: Anita Bush The right of Anita Bush to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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CHAPTER ONE - BEGINNINGS My name is Elizabeth Baxter. I am twenty seven years old, and I am this close to becoming a murderer. There, I've said it. I feel like I've just taken my turn at a Murderer's Anonymous meeting, and believe me when I tell you it feels as though a great weight has been lifted from my soul. But before you go reaching for the phone to call the police to stop me from committing some heinous crime, let me ask you a question. Ok, maybe two questions. Are you in a relationship, or rather are you in a happy relationship? Is the man lying next to you in bed each night the same one you met and fell madly, deeply and passionately in love with? That snorting husk, doing their finest impression of a bear chewing a chainsaw for Britain’s Got Talent. A bear who quickly fell asleep after what could only be described, at best, as a completely unsatisfying sexual performance. A quick fumbling followed by a few thrusts, a peck on the cheek, then the obligatory cold shoulder coupled with snores that could lift roof tiles. Of course, I realise love changes. Those initial waves of desire and lust that first knock you off your feet, that pick you up and carry you with them whilst you dare to resist, pass all too quickly. Then along come gentler, calmer waters. Feelings of lust turn into love. You coast along together, steering your way through life in harmony. Yet all too soon the storm clouds seem to gather in the distance. The sea becomes rougher. Rocks appear in the waters, jutting out and clawing at you as you try your best to steer a course around them. Somehow you get caught up. The sails tear and the hull breaks. Before you know it you're in a rowing boat with no map and one paddle between you, wondering how the hell you got here and having no clue as to where you are going. So you lie there, listening to him snore, having had completely unsatisfying sex; the kind you never really wanted in the first place, and afterwards wish to god you hadn’t bothered participating in. You lie there, desperately trying to get a few precious hours of sleep before the
alarm goes off and you are once again making him late for his train, and you seriously contemplate smothering him to death with a pillow. Not out of cruelty. No, this would be a mercy killing. Perhaps smothering would be a little extreme. Yet as I lie here looking at what remains of the man I once loved so passionately, so completely, it seems more of an act of kindness than of hostility. I said loved, and I hesitate for a moment. Shouldn’t that be love? Am I no longer in love? Bertrand Russell once said, ‘Brief and powerless is man’s life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dark.’ As I lie here in the pitiless dark, how brief and powerless has become my life, and how those words resonate within me. It hadn’t always been this way of course. We'd had our waves of lust, and our calmer seas. As I lie here in the dark, amidst the snores and the grunts, let me take you back to the beginning, before we talk about the present again. I met David whilst at university in Durham, just days after my twentieth birthday. I'd been out celebrating with friends and was heading home through the moonlit streets when a tall, dark stranger came out of the shadows and caught my eye. Well actually he asked me if I had a light for his cigarette. To say he was not my usual type would be an understatement. I typically went for classically handsome, smart, steady and reliable gents, decked out in tailored jackets and brogues, with perhaps tweeds and oxfords at the weekend, oh and shirts, definitely shirts. Preferably with a double cuff. I had a real thing for that. I could overlook quite a lot if you were wearing smart cotton with mother of pearl buttons, finished off with cufflinks. I also really didn't like smoking. Yet here I was doing double-takes at someone in scruffy trainers, a slogan t-shirt, and with a slightly bent fag dangling from his lips. He wore a beanie hat pulled down too low over his head so it almost covered his eyes, and one of those funny little beards on the end of his chin that looked as though it may have been drawn on with a felt tip. He was so far removed from my type, he may well have been the anti-Elizabeth. I had a weird notion if we were to touch we would both spontaneously evaporate, like matter and anti-matter devouring each other. I wondered if there might be a loud bang as it happened.
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"Have you got one, then? A light?" His voice was deep and strong, and as he spoke he made no attempt to cover up the fact that he was eyeing me up and down. The cheeky sod! If there was any feminist in me at all it was yelling at me to slap his face and walk off, but there was something about him that made me hot for him. He had an air of danger, of excitement, of different. The rest, as they say, is history. Our history from that time consisted of too many late nights drinking and screwing, too many missed lectures and study groups. There may not have been a loud bang when we first touched, but there were plenty of them afterwards. The waves of lust crashed strong and deep around us, carrying us far out to sea. We had sex a lot when we were first together. I mean a lot. Especially while we were still at university. Like most young men in their early twenties, David seemed to be in a permanent state of arousal. When he woke up in the morning, erection. If he opened the fridge door for some milk, erection. If the wind changed direction, or a cool breeze blew in the open window, erection. I suffered from a painful lower back once. I seriously wondered if the cause of it was from having a hard cock rubbed into it every time David and I were in bed together doing spoons and he wanted sex. Why do guys think that is a turn on anyway? Although I’d had a few boyfriends, I'd only slept with two people before David. To be honest I hadn’t been all that bothered about sex. That was until I met David, I should add. In hindsight I now know it was due to the fact that neither I nor either of my previous lovers knew anything about sex beyond the missionary position. Don’t even ask about foreplay; I seriously doubt either of them could spell it, let alone know what it was. David, on the other hand, knew several sexual positions and introduced me to the wonders of oral. He also taught me how to wank him, something I discovered I was both talented at and enjoyed. Seriously, making a man come with just my hand was something I found immensely erotic and exhilarating. Taking hold of his erection, knowing I was the cause of it and he wanted me right here, right now, turned me on beyond belief. Being able to feel when he was going to explode then slowing it down so that he didn’t. Building it up again until he was squirming, begging me not to stop, that was truly exciting. Exciting, and powerful. I loved, I mean really loved, watching
his come shoot out of the tip of his cock. I quickly found the more times I brought him to the edge of orgasm and then backed off before finally letting him come, the harder his cock jerked and the further his come flew through the air. Sometimes it shot so far up his body it went past his head onto the pillow, and once I actually got some of it on his face. He thought it was disgusting but I laughed so much I nearly peed myself. When we left Durham after our finals, we both moved into David’s old room at his parents’ house in West London whilst awaiting our results. After missing so many lectures I think I did pretty well to come away with a 2-1 in English and Philosophy, though my father didn't see it that way. We went to stay with my parents at their house in Seal in Kent for a few days as soon as we got our letters in the post. "You know we love you dearly, but I expected better," my father said when he learned of my result. He was right to chastise me; I had always excelled at school and English was indeed my unus amor verus, my one true love. David received a 2-1 in Computer Science which he was very happy with. My father was full of questions about how David was going to look after me now we had left university. David tried to bond with him as best he could, a thankless task considering my father would never accept anyone as being good enough for me. They had met before, but this was the first time I'd brought David to my parents house. My father seemed to relish in making David work for his approval. They played snooker, which was one of my father’s ways of measuring someone up. That and asking about what books they read. "For god’s sake, if my father asks, say nothing about your comics," I said to David on the drive down. "They're graphic novels," he said. "How many times?" "War and Peace is graphic, David. I hardly think 2000AD counts as a novel." He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the journey. Over that long weekend, and for some of the years to follow, staying at my parents house with David was always entertaining, if only for the effect it had on our sex life. When we were at university we had sex whenever we wanted. When we were staying at my parents house? I hate to think what my father would have done if he ever caught us, but it would not have been pleasant. So we took what we could get whenever the chance arose. A quick coupling in the shower, sneaking around at night trying not to wake my parents or the dog. At times we put our hands over each other's mouths so neither of us could
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make a sound while we fucked as quickly as we could. Those memories make me smile, even now. In contrast, living with David at his parents' house was completely different. They let us share a room, something my father would never allow unless we were married and even then I wonder if he would insist on separate beds. There was never any rush to have sex, but perhaps because his parents were just in the next room or because the initial honeymoon period was over we stopped doing it as much as we used to. We moved into calmer waters. We had fallen in love. That frantic, urgent, early relationship sex replaced by slower, softer, more casual love making. We continued living at his parents' house for about three months before David was offered a job. He announced we would be moving into a rented flat in East London that he found. The fact he had chosen a place for us to live without involving me was all but forgotten in the excitement at the time. Looking back it was a signal of what was to come, yet then I was blissfully unaware. Emily, my younger sister, came to London on the train, and together with my best friend Sarah they helped me and David to move into our new home, a slightly unsavoury one bedroom flat above a betting shop in Shoreditch. Our first night was spent drinking cans of cheap lager from an off licence on the corner of the road. We chatted and laughed together amongst a handful of packing cases containing our meagre possessions while we ate takeaway pizzas straight from the boxes. We didn’t even have a proper bed, just a mattress placed on the floor of the tiny bedroom. Once Emily and Sarah left, David took me by the hand without saying a word and all but dragged me to the mattress. He grabbed me by my hips and pulled me to him, kissing me roughly. He tasted of beer and pizza as he pressed his lips to mine, our tongues meeting and moving together. Running his hands up my body he took hold of my t-shirt, pulling it up, our embrace momentarily broken as he took it off over my head before tossing it aside. Our hungry lips found each other again as we fell down onto the mattress. It had been a couple of weeks since we last had sex. David had been busy preparing for his new job. He was 'dog tired' as he put it, but now we had our own place was sex back on the agenda? I could feel his hardness through his jeans, pressing against
my thigh. Running a hand down his body I undid the zip of his jeans and felt inside for his cock, hearing him let out a moan as my fingertips brushed against it through his boxers. He reached down between my legs, rubbing me through my clothes, making me wet. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed him touching me until then. "I need to fuck you," said David, breaking away from me and frantically pulling off his jeans and t-shirt. Once he was naked he turned his attention to my remaining clothes, stripping me out of them as if they were on fire. Once I was naked he all but pinned me to the mattress and kissed me hard, positioning himself between my legs and pressing the tip of his cock against me. "Hey, slow down," I said, looking up at him. "We aren't at my parents you know?" "Just don't talk," he said, still trying to find my entrance. I reached down and helped guide him in, both for his sake and mine, before he started to fuck me. After two or three strokes he was all the way in. He paused for a moment, savouring being gripped by my pussy. Then locking his arms to hold himself above me, he gazed down at my body. "Oh god, Liz, I think I'm going to come really quick." He started thrusting urgently into me and I could feel he was going to come quite soon. I knew the way he looked when he was getting close to the edge, it was written all over him. Not wanting to be left out after not having had sex for so long, I reached down with one hand and pressed my fingers hard against my clit, rubbing it as I squeezed one of my nipples with my other hand. I was desperate to come with him still inside me, with his cock stretching me, making the pressure on my clit feel so intense. Seeing me rubbing myself sent David over the edge. He cried out as he exploded, bucking his hips and squirting his hot come deep inside me. I could feel his cock pulsating and I started to come too, rubbing my clit whilst gripping his arm with my other hand as I let out a cry of relief.
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CHAPTER TWO - DELUSIONS "Will you hurry up for Christ's sake, I am going to be late!" David stood by the front door of our flat, rattling his door keys as if somehow they would magically extract me from the house. "Come on, or I am going without you." His voice was cold, hard and angry. He used to say we are going to be late. He stopped caring about we a long time ago, possibly around the same time I stopped caring about being on time for my job. "I’m coming," I said as I threw on my jacket, walking out of the flat with a piece of toast clamped between my teeth to be hastily eaten as we raced to the underground station a few streets away. I could already feel the start of indigestion in my stomach as the reality of the present caught up with me again. So much for that trip down memory lane in the night to happier days, happier times, happier us. The snoring beast had woken up in a bad mood again. "You do this nearly every bloody morning," he said. He brushed past me at the gate. I stepped back to let him through and I swear he deliberately tried to shoulder barge me out of the way. What a shit! "Then you should be used to it, shouldn't you?" I said. No response. Typical David. He didn't like talking in the street, or at least not to me. He would raise his eyebrows and tut whenever another couple were airing their lives in public. He believed in privacy, but I think he also didn't want other people hearing the way he sometimes spoke to me. It had caused problems in the past. We walked to the station in silence, save for the sound of his angry footsteps as he stormed along a few paces in front of me. I imagined his trainers saying Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! as his heals pounded into the pavement. God, even his footwear hated me. When we arrived at the station I realised I needed to renew my season ticket. At least I had it in my pocket this time; I'd lost count of the number of times I'd accidentally left it in a bag that was still at home, or in my desk at work, all to David’s growing annoyance. "David, I have to get a new ticket." I could sense him mentally adding this latest misdemeanour to his list. Nothing from him though. Just silence. Fuck you.
I had a theory that he kept a list entitled ‘Things she has done to annoy me’. It would be full of everything I did that made him so angry he couldn’t even bring himself to put my name on it, de-ranking me to just she. She who made me late for work again. She who answered me back again! She who was put on this earth to make my life a living hell. I remember searching for it once, this imaginary list. I turned our flat upside down before I realised if it existed at all it would undoubtedly be on David's laptop, what with him being an absolute IT nut. He had a lot of files on his computer, including an intriguing folder simply called Secret. It was password protected. I could have tried to guess what the password was, but for that I would need to have an inkling of what actually went on inside David's head. Frankly I didn't have a clue. End of the line. I queued and bought my weekly ticket, then went down to the platform for my train. David was gone, of course. I hadn't expected him to wait, and in all honesty I was relieved that he hadn't. Being near him when he was in one of his moods was a place I had grown tired of a long time ago. It was also a place I found myself in with more and more regularity. I knew from experience that he would be mad with me all day, especially over my sarcastic comment. I could imagine him seething, grinding his teeth as my voice went round and round in his head, getting faster and faster, higher and higher pitched until I sounded like a parrot on speed. Then you should be used to it, shouldn't you? Then you should be used to it, shouldn't you? Who's a pretty boy then? As for not renewing my train ticket on the way home last night, that was beyond ridiculous as far as David was concerned. He would stew and fester over it all day, then browbeat me about it all evening. He actually screamed at me once for doing exactly this. It was one of those rare moments out in public when he forgot himself and couldn't contain his rage. "I am NOT missing a train because YOU forgot to renew your BLOODY TICKET!" The look on the faces of people who overheard him, and there were many, was priceless. A worried looking lady actually asked me if I was all right, touching my arm and glaring at David as if he had struck
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me. I was upset, but that act of kindness from a total stranger got to me more than David shouting. It told me that someone out there cared. The fact that a tube train arrived at our station every few minutes was no valid excuse for not being ready in David's book. He was one of those crazy people who would cram themselves into a carriage, thrust into someone's armpit whilst being almost squashed to death by the doors when there was another train full of vacant seats literally one minute behind. As I made my way into the centre of town to spend the day doing a job I no longer enjoyed I tried not to think about the tension, and probable argument, that awaited me at home that evening. It was bad enough just getting to work on time and in one piece. The London Underground experience in rush hour was not for the faint of heart. Throw in eight hours working for a boss who treated his staff like dirt, followed by an evening with a sulky boyfriend with the maturity level of a twelve year old, and you could tell what kind of day lay ahead for me. Actually I am doing an injustice to twelve year olds; I apologise profusely for insulting them. As bad and as dull as my job was, I just couldn't shake off the feeling of dread that loomed over me as the day went on. That evening the walk home from the tube station, which was normally just a few minutes stroll, seemed to take forever. I made my way to the front door of our flat, pushing the gate open and walking up the short path whilst fishing around in my bag for the key. Another one of David's bugbears. I could hear his voice as I dug them out of the depths. "Why do you always put the bloody keys in your bag? What's wrong with your pockets? You put them in your bag and they fall to the bottom and then you can't find the bloody things. Jesus!" I used to throw them in my bag out of spite, just to annoy him. A feeling of nausea swept over me as I slid the key into the lock and opened the door. David was often home before me and would normally be in the sitting room glued to his Xbox, waiting for me to come home and make him dinner. I was typically greeted by the sounds of gunfire, accompanied by David screaming pleasantries such as
"DIE", "FUCK", "SHIT", or my personal favourite, "NOOOOOOO YOU FUCKER/BASTARD/ARSEHOLE" followed closely by the sound of his controller bouncing across the room. Tonight I was greeted by silence. Maybe he wasn't back yet? I went inside, shutting the door quietly behind me. Moving slowly up the hall I paused outside the sitting room door. I had a vision of David sitting on the sofa in silence, one hand clenching a can of beer and the other in a tight fist, pinching the skin of his leg through his jeans. I swallowed and pushed open the door. "Hi, I'm home," I said as I stuck my head around the door, breathing a sigh of relief when I realised the room was sans David. Quickly running to the bedroom, I changed out of my work clothes hoping to get out of the house before he returned. Five minutes later I was on my way back to the tube station with a bottle of wine in my bag and my phone in my hand. "Hi, it's me. I could really use a glass of wine and a catch up. See you at your place in half an hour? Great, I'm on my way." Sarah's flat always felt like home to me, like a sanctuary against the harsh cruelties of life; particularly the cruelties of work and David. I had helped Sarah to move in about five years ago, and to decorate countless times since; I knew her walls like the back of my hand I had painted them that often. I looked after the place whenever she went away on holiday, and stayed with her every time David and I had a falling out. At least until the dust settled. Coming here seeking refuge from yet another impending storm felt like déjà vu. "Dammit!" Sarah hit the side of her stereo as she tried to get it to respond to a disc. "Here, let me try," I said, coming to the rescue of her stereo as I handed her a glass of wine. She took a sip and winced slightly. "I know," I said. "It's a cheap brand but it will do the trick." I gave the disc a quick rub on my t-shirt and placed it in the drawer before pressing play. There was a knack to her stereo that I'd learned from my stays here and pretty soon the music of Mozart was wafting through her flat, soothing frayed nerves. "So tell me about work, are you still bored out of your mind?" Sarah asked, leaning back into the cushions and taking a long drink from her glass. Not waiting for me to answer, she shrugged, "You only get one life, you know. We weren’t put on this earth to waste our lives
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away. You need to get out there and have some fun. Do something you enjoy!" "You remind me of my mother," I said as I blushed, embarrassed that this was always my answer whenever she questioned me about my job. Sarah raised an eyebrow and then laughed, shaking her head at me and holding my hand. "I tell you what," she said. "Let me have a word with my boss and see if we have anything at my place. I absolutely love my job, and I bet anything where I work would be more than the pittance they are giving you." She had recently started a new job with a private bank near Charing Cross, and was being paid a ridiculous amount of money, way more than I earned. "Sure," I said. I was pretty sure the answer would be no but what the hell, it cost nothing to ask, right? "We might not have anything, but it's worth checking." "I won't hold my breath, but thanks." I drained my glass, and for some reason David popped into my head. I imagined him arriving home to find the flat quiet and empty. I stared down into my glass and played about with the small drop of wine that was left pooled in the bottom. "What's up?" said Sarah. "Is it that obvious?" I said. I shifted in my seat almost involuntarily, drawing my legs up onto the cushion, adopting a kind of foetal position. If Sarah hadn’t guessed something was wrong before, this classic tell would have given me away in an instant. Sarah pulled her own legs up, mirroring me. God she was good at this. That psychology degree of hers wasn't wasted after all. "How long have we known each other?" she said. "I know when something's wrong." "It's David, getting in a mood with me again. Honestly, Sarah, I don't know how much more of it I can put up with." Sarah moved closer and put her arms around me. We had been here before. In fact, her comforting me like this was almost a monthly event. I had joked with her in the past about making an advance booking at her place for the next David and Lizzie fallout, but each time it actually happened it made the joke seem less funny. "Actually it's not just his moods. He still spends most nights playing on that stupid Xbox, then comes to bed in the early hours and
wakes me up with his snoring." Not only was it wearing me down, it was also making me angry. Angry at him for the way he treated me, and angry at myself for letting it happen. I tried desperately not to cry as I poured it all out to Sarah but I just couldn't help it. "He gets all ratty with me in the morning because he hasn't had enough sleep and he takes it out on me." "Is he still checking up on you all the time?" Sarah spoke softly, wiping the tears from my face and stroking my hair, the way my mum used to do when I was upset as a child. It made me feel safe, loved. "Yes," I said. "I honestly don't know why he doesn't believe that I would never cheat on him?" "He's obviously insecure, but he's clearly not thinking about what it's doing to you. Or your relationship. He'll end up driving you away if he keeps on like this." Sarah was right. She was always right. Even though David’s constant checking up on me was presumably his way of making sure I was still his, it was actually driving a wedge between us. He checked my phone, my emails, and sometimes even followed me if I went out without him. "Seriously, Lizzie, if that was me I'd be out of there like a shot." I sat and tapped my fingers against my glass, gazing at the surface of the wine Sarah poured into it. I'd thought about leaving David, more than once, but he always managed to worm his way back into my heart. It probably sounds pathetic, but I'd got used to always having him there even if our relationship wasn’t perfect. Part of me knew I ought to leave him; it's always easier said than done. My mobile buzzed. It was a message from David. ‘Why aren't you home from work? Where are you?’ I showed it to Sarah and she pulled a face. "Just ignore it," she said. It was tempting, but I knew if I didn't answer him it would just lead to more texts followed by frantic phone calls demanding to know where I was. I sent a one word reply. ‘Sarah's.’ Sarah kissed me on the forehead and wiped the last remaining tear from my cheek. "Come on, let's order a takeaway and have another bottle of wine. Then you can tell me what you want for your birthday next month."
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At least she'd remembered; David hadn't mentioned my birthday. I suspected he'd completely forgotten. CHAPTER THREE - A FRESH START Over the course of the next few weeks I made a couple of decisions about my life. On my own, without David's input. It was my turn to be selfish for once. The first decision I made was to change my job. I had been working as a Personal Assistant to a particularly unpleasant man in London for far too long. I was going nowhere, and feeling incredibly taken for granted. True to her word Sarah asked her boss if he knew of any positions at her company, and whilst they had none her boss did mention that a friend of his at another bank in London might have something going. Sarah passed me his contact details and I speculatively sent my rĂŠsumĂŠ off to him with a covering letter, not really expecting to hear anything. A few days later I received a call from him, asking if I was free for an informal chat at a bar in town. I went along not knowing quite what to expect, leaving a couple of hours later none the wiser regarding a job. He was perfectly pleasant and seemed very interested in my background. He said he would be in touch if anything came up. Surprisingly, I received a call from him the very next day asking if I could attend an interview for a PA position to some of the bank's Directors. We arranged a time and date and I went along, my stomach churning with butterflies. It felt like it went well, but now it was the waiting game to find out if I would be offered the job. The money was certainly a lot better than I was currently being paid, and the people who interviewed me were really pleasant. I was desperate to get offered the position, if only to enjoy handing in my notice at my current job. The other decision I made over that same period was far more personal. I decided to start writing again. I found a writing group in London that, on paper, looked interesting and I wanted to join. Since I was a young girl I dreamed of being an artist, an actress or a writer. I guess it's a bit like little boys wanting to be a policeman or a train driver, and little girls wanting to be a princess. I wanted that too, I mean who wouldn't want to be a princess, right? But
most of all I wanted to be something creative. I quickly learned that I couldn't draw particularly well, at least not well enough for it to be enjoyable, and I found myself outshone by others in school plays. I did, however, have an extremely active imagination, some might say over active, and I loved words. Writing quickly and naturally became my passion. I spent hours making up poems or short stories, then subjected my mother and sister to them at bedtime. Mum used to remark at how funny it was that most children had stories read to them at night, yet in our house I read stories to her. I can remember her laying on my bed next to me, pretending to fall asleep as I read. Emily would stare at me from her bed with her eyes big and wide, desperately fighting to stay awake until the end of the story. I kept all of my stories and poems safe in a shoe box that I hid under my bed, along with my diaries and an assortment of childhood treasures. Emily had a similar box, and sometimes we would sit up late into the night marvelling over each other's collections. We both had various stones, shiny buttons, cards and an assortment of other precious finds from our travels to and from school, around the house and garden, and from the beach in summer. I can remember Emily had a beautiful shell she found on the beach at Camber Sands when we had been there one year. "You can have this," she said, putting it into my hand and closing my fingers around it. "What do you want in exchange?" I asked, letting her look into my box so she could choose something worthy. "I don't want anything," she said. "Having you as my sister is enough." I was nine years old and she was seven, and she made me howl with emotion at such a beautiful sentiment. Things like that stay with you. They shape you, making you a better person for having experienced them. She became my heroine then, my muse, and I wrote constantly about her for several years afterwards. I continued my writing throughout my teens and all through university, though by then it was afforded less time due to other commitments, not least of which was my relationship with David. He was jealous of anything that held my attention other than him, so I took to writing in secret. My dream was to become a writer, even though it was a life potentially full of rejections and of living in constant fear that my work would never be good enough. I never expected to become world famous but if I could make even a modest living from it, that
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would have been enough for me. Unfortunately it was not enough for the man I fell in love with, as he told me soon after we moved into our first flat together. "You know, Liz, you're wasting your time trying to cut it as a writer." "What do you mean?" I put my pen down and looked at David. He was on the sofa playing a computer game whilst I sat at the dining table working on a manuscript idea. "Your writing," he said. "It's just..." "It's just what?" He knew I was paranoid about it, that I feared criticism. He got up and came over to me, putting his hand on the back of my chair whilst leaning over my shoulder. "I mean, look at this." He picked up my treasured words, leafing through the pages and snorting derisively. "Who in their right mind would pay for this garbage?" "Someone might like it..." I said, my voice trailing off into a whisper. I could feel my eyes starting to mist. "Anyway, you haven't even read it." "Actually I have," he replied. "I'm telling you this for your own good, Liz, only because I don't want to see you get hurt. I'm sorry, but your writing's shit. It's just worthless shit." To emphasise how bad it was, he wiped it against his backside through his jeans before screwing it up into a ball and tossing it into the bin. At the time I felt he was only telling me what I already knew. I packed away all of my writing, leaving it under my old bed at my parents house where it found audience with dust and solitude for the next five years. Recently Emily and I were chatting on the phone, reminiscing about our childhood. She mentioned my writing and the pain in my heart was so strong I knew I had to write again. Whether in rebellion for the way David always did things without telling me, or truly as an act of pure selfishness, I had not told David about either of these decisions. For so long David accused me of keeping secrets, checking up on me and my whereabouts. To actually find myself keeping things from him felt almost intoxicating. My wicked side took pleasure in knowing I was doing things he knew nothing about. Yet I knew if I did get that job I would eventually have to tell him. I would also have to tell him about the writing group if I joined it.
Although I didn't need his permission to go out, he still insisted on knowing exactly where I was and who I was with. For the time being, though, I pushed the thought of having to come clean to the back of my mind. I probably wouldn't get the job anyway, and the writing group would undoubtedly be full of old hippies reading poetry about trees and flowers, not the sort of thing I was looking for. The reality of both, however, was somewhat different. First came news about the job. About two weeks after the interview, on my birthday no less, my mobile rang. A nice lady from Human Resources at the bank told me they were very impressed and wished to offer me the job if I was still interested. I accepted it immediately, and the lady said she said she would send the offer through in writing. I felt like I had been sent a gift from the universe, since David had forgotten my birthday as I suspected he would. Second, I was delightfully surprised to find the writing group, which met every Thursday evening in a second-hand bookshop in Camden, was not what I expected. The members of the group were extremely friendly and welcoming, plus there was a good mixture of ages and writing styles amongst them. It felt like a great place to discuss both writing in general, and to listen to other's work. It offered both support and constructive criticism, but best of all it felt homely. I felt like I belonged, and could not have been happier. I went home from my first meeting with the most stupid grin on my face. People on the tube must have thought I was mad. No one smiles in London, especially on the underground. No one. Unless they're crazy. The time to sit down and tell David about the job and the writing group had arrived, though I delayed it for a couple of days until we seemed to be going through a better patch with slightly less arguing and mood swings. Although I knew he would be annoyed at me for not discussing my plans with him in advance, I did not anticipate the level of rage David flew into when I told him my news. I waited until we finished dinner and he was feeling a bit more relaxed after a long day at work. I knew from experience that I needed to get his attention before he settled in for the night on his Xbox, otherwise he would all but refuse to communicate with me. Apparently it was nigh on impossible for David to talk to anyone other than
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through a headset after about eight most evenings. David sat down in his favourite spot on the sofa and picked up his headset, placing it over his ears and reaching for his controller. "David, before you start playing again I really need to talk to you," I said, sitting down next to him. "Can't it wait?" he asked. "I'm a bit busy." He had his game controller in his hand and he started to fiddle with the buttons. I was used to this. Trying to talk to him when he was in game mode was pretty pointless, but I had to try. "I guess it can, but I really wanted to tell you about something." His headset was flashing, and I could vaguely hear someone's voice coming from the earpiece. "Uh-huh," he said, starting to open menus on screen for whatever game he was currently playing. I didn't know if he was talking to me or the person in his ear and knew I was losing him, fast. "It's about work," I went on, "well, actually my new work." Nothing. He was slipping away into gaming world. I had one last chance to get his attention, short of jumping in front of the television and screaming at him, and then that would be it until tomorrow. I took a deep breath, digging my nails into my palms to spur myself on. "David I have a new job. At a bank." That did it. He stopped looking at the television screen, turning his head in my direction. "What the fuck are you on about?" "I have a new job," I repeated. "Sarah put me in touch with someone her boss knows, and I got offered a new job." No point being anything but totally honest now. "Hang on, not you." David took his headset off, put down his game controller and turned towards me, looking me straight in the eyes. "What do you mean, Sarah's boss?" I sensed trouble brewing, and it was over something I hadn't thought about even though it should have been obvious with his track record. I'd been so preoccupied thinking he would be annoyed about me taking a new job without his knowledge that I hadn't stopped to think about him being jealous of me talking to men he didn't know. He stood up and glared down at me, demanding an answer. "Who the fuck is this boss you have been talking to? And what new job? What the fuck are you talking about?" he snarled as spittle flew
from his mouth and landed on my face. I reached up to my cheek and wiped it off. "Sarah's new boss, I don't know him. She just asked him about any jobs that might be going at her place and he put me in touch with someone else who offered me a position." I felt myself getting defensive, though I wanted to stay calm so as not to wind David up. "It's pretty much the same as I do now. I've said yes to it." "When exactly were you going to tell me about it? On your first fucking day? Or maybe you were planning not to tell me at all?" David stalked out of the room and into the kitchen. I could hear the fridge door open, then slam shut. He came back into the sitting room, opening a can of beer. "Look I know I should have told you about it sooner, but--" "Yes you bloody well should have. What the hell do you think you are playing at? And who the fuck is this person who has offered you a job?" "I told you. Sarah's boss put me in touch with a guy he knows at a bank in--" "Oh, a guy he knows? A guy? Who the fuck is this guy? What are you doing talking to guys about jobs behind my back?" I looked up at David and spoke as gently as I could, hoping to placate his anger. "Will you please just calm down and listen?" "Calm down? You're fucking joking right? You're off talking to guys behind my back, doing god knows what for a new job, and you expect me to be FUCKING CALM?" He was screaming now and starting to get animated. I had seriously misjudged this. "Doing god knows what? What on earth are you talking about?" "You tell me?" I got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. David followed right behind me. "So come on then," he said sarcastically. "What exactly did you do with this guy to get your new job? A quick blow job under the desk?" That was it. I turned round and glared at him. He stood there glaring right back at me, his face red. His hand was gripping his beer can so tightly he had indented the sides of it and spilled some onto the floor. "What is it with you and your obsession with me talking to other men?"
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"Oh here we go," he said. "I am not obsessed." "Really?" It was my turn to be sarcastic. "Of course I'm not." "So it's normal to go through other people's phone messages and emails is it? To follow them when they go out? Demanding to know where they are going and who they are seeing?" "I don't do that anymore!" He banged his beer can down on the counter and stared at his shoes, biting his bottom lip and tapping his fingers on his thighs. Guilty fidgets. "David, you do," I said. "We've had this argument before and you always swear you'll change, but you never do." He looked up at me and tried to change the subject. An old tactic. "So what's this job?" His voice was calmer. He even tried to smile. This was his you'll soon forget about it and forgive me again look. "It's still working as a PA but for a bank near The Strand. It's for a lot more money." I grinned when I mentioned it being more money. My own tactic. This was something he should like at least. David always had a thing about wanting more money. Mostly for computer games and beer. "I still don't like the fact that you didn't tell me." He took another beer out of the fridge and went back to the sitting room. Clearly the mention of money was doing the trick. "I'm sorry," I said, following him back to the sofa. He had the controller in his hand again and was flicking through menu options. "So when do you start?" he asked, casually. "I have to work a few weeks' notice, so in about four weeks." "That prick you work for should just let you go. Have you written your resignation letter yet? I want to see it." "Yes, it's on my laptop." I want to see it. Not even a please. I swallowed hard. I may as well get the rest of it out now, seeing as he had calmed down a bit. "Listen, David, there's something else I need to tell you." I immediately sensed him tensing, and I bit my bottom lip in anticipation of another outburst. "I've decided I want to start my writing again, so I've joined a writing group." He turned his head slowly and stared at me for a moment, saying nothing. I could see his face turning red again, and I noticed he'd
clenched his fists. I could almost hear his brain working overtime. A writing group There's bound to be men there. Men she will talk to, laugh with, have coffee with, have sex with. The look on David's face frightened me a little and I instinctively got up and backed away from him, towards the door. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? You whore!" His words shocked me and I frowned, my mouth opening in disbelief at what he had just said. "How DARE you call me that!" I shouted. "How dare I? HOW FUCKING DARE I?" He was on his feet and moved towards me. I turned around and ran to the bedroom, trying to shut the door behind me but David grabbed hold of the handle on the other side and twisted it violently, hurting my hand. I cried out in pain as he forced the door open. It banged into me, knocking me back onto the bed. David burst into the room, shouting and swearing, looming over me with his fist raised as if he was going to hit me. I hid my face under my arms. I was frightened, not sure what he was going to do. "David, you hurt me." I cried, trying to move away from him. The nerves in my wrist were screaming in agony, sending shockwaves of pain up my arm and into my brain. "FUCKING GOOD, YOU BITCH!" he shouted. "How do you think I feel?" I packed a bag that night and left the flat for the last time. As I got into a taxi, David came outside and stood in the middle of the street begging me not to go. It was raining, hard, and he was soaked through to his skin. He didn’t have anything on his feet. I said nothing to him. Not a single word. As the taxi drove off, I could hear him shouting my name into the night at the top of his lungs. I didn't look back.
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If you enjoyed this free excerpt and want to read more, there are a further 28 chapters available right now on Amazon. To buy the book in the UK head here To buy the book in the US (or worldwide) head here I also have a free short story, The Library, available to read on my blog or here on Issuu. Blog version of The Library Issuu version of The Library