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“The longer I know people, the more they puzzle me. My oldest friends are just those of whom I can say that I don’t know the first thing about them.”
- W. Somerset Maugham
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Abby
"You’ve been such a good girl." His harsh, velvety voice fills my ears, and I almost self-combust.
Why are his words so appealing? I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to Shane East growl over the earbuds. Since I first heard an audiobook narrated by him, I’ve been a goner. It’s the perfect way to unwind on the tube, on the way home from my job—my incredibly stressful job at a communications agency in central London. One which was supposed to be my dream role but has turned out to be little more than me fetching coffee for my bosses, biding time by the photocopy machine, and taking care of the social media feeds of the company. The last, I don’t mind, if only there weren’t so many dos and don’ts to what I can share on social media.
You’d think an agency that's supposed to be at the cutting edge of PR would take risks with their messaging strategy, but nope. They're conventional, and careful, and overly traditional in their outlook toward online marketing. They want me to share posts that read like they were drafted by someone who lived in Victorian times. Which, in a sense, they are, considering they're owned by someone who's supposedly a distant cousin to royalty. Argh!
At last, I found a job without using my father’s influence. And once again, I refused my parent’s offer of renting the apartment they own in Chelsea. Instead, I’m managing with a small studio apartment in Hackney, in the East—a part of London my parents refuse to acknowledge exists. But then, anything outside the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, where my parents live and where I grew up, is of no consequence to my parents. They only make an exception for the City of Westminster, and only because that’s where Buckingham Palace is located. So, there you have it.
My parents are snobs, and while I grew up surrounded by privilege, I’ve spent most of my life trying to put distance between myself and my roots. I’ve wanted to be a self-made person. Someone independent, who doesn't have to rely on anyone else for my source of income. Someone who's free to do what she wants. Not bound by tradition and history, like my parents are. Still, it's difficult to cut ties with them completely. They are my flesh and blood, after all.
At least, I'm living and working in London, joining the throngs of people going to and from work daily. People hate the daily commute. I freaking love it. Especially since it's one of the few times I can hook on my earphones and indulge in my secret passion for spicy audiobooks. When I listen to smut, I’m no longer a plus-sized girl with a guitar-shaped figure. I’m just another curvy girl ready to lose every ounce of my feminism when the narrator growls: "Are you going to give me what I want, little girl?"
"Yes, yes," she breathes. "Take me, please."
An elbow nudges me in the side. I snap my eyes open and turn to find the girl next to me staring with a flushed face. I pull off my earphones while frowning at her. "What happe—"
"I am going to turn you over my lap and—"
My gaze widens. No, no, no. I can still hear Shane’s voice, which means I didn’t hook my earphones properly to my phone, which means everyone in the carriage can hear what I’m listening to. I slide my fingers over the screen of the phone, miss, hit it again, and switch off the audiobook.
My breath comes in pants. My heart flutters like a butterfly caught in a net. I glance around and find every single person in the carriage is looking at me, some with smirks on their faces. Heat sears my cheeks. My arms and legs tremble. Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. I sink against the back of the seat, and draw into myself, trying to shrink and make myself as small as I can. Which is not very small, at all.
The train draws into the next station, then pulls to a stop. People disembark. Others shuffle in to take their places. Saved by the tube stop. Whew. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, when:
"That was hot," my neighbor comments.
I shoot her a sideways glance to find her smiling at me.
"So hot," I agree.
"Love spicy books." Her grin widens.
"Me, too." I allow my lips to curve in a tentative smile.
"I’m Mira, by the way."
"Abby." I hold out my hand, and she shakes it.
"I prefer reading my dirty books, but you may have changed my mind after that blisteringly steamy excerpt." She fans herself. "Now, if only my boyfriend would follow in the steps of my book boyfriends."
"Oh, that’s a thought."
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
I shake my head.
"Don’t make the mistake I did, then."
"What’s that?"
"Well, when you find one, make sure you put him to the test."
"T-test?"
She nods. "Ask him to act out your favorite spicy scenes. And if he makes you 'arrive'" —she makes air quotes— "as hard and as fast as your fave book boyfriend, then you know he’s worth making yours."
"Oh, wow." I gape at her. "I've never thought of that." Why didn’t I think of that? "That’s such a good idea."
"I know, right?" She winks at me. "You should join our knitting club."
"Knitting club?"
"We’re the London offshoot of the Lymington Knitting Club. We meet on most weekends, knit and consume shots, and exchange notes of our fave spicy scenes."
"Meeting to discuss spicy scenes sounds amazing," I breathe. “But I don’t know how to knit.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. We’ll teach you. And it is amazing. You’re gonna love it. What’s your phone number?"
"Eh?"
"Your phone number, babe." She glances up as the train pulls into the next station. "That was fast. I swear the distance between the last station and mine always goes by in a flash. Makes me think I should have gotten off at the previous one and walked for exercise"—she laughs—"but I never manage to do it." She turns to me again. "Your phone number?"
I glance down at my phone, then pull up my contact list and hand it over. "Here, fill in your phone number, and I’ll call you."
"Okay." She takes my phone, types her name and phone number, then hands it back to me.
The train comes to a stop, and she jumps. "Ciao, Abby. Don’t forget to call me." She secures her hardback over her shoulder, then heads to the exit.
I pull off my earphones, then deposit them, along with my phone, into my bag. It’s another ten minutes before I get off at my stop, then head out through the ticket barriers. I step out into the cool evening air. It’s only September, but already, the nights are getting shorter. It’s only nine p.m. though, so it’s not too late. I head up the sidewalk, then turn onto my street when there’s a tug on my bag. My purse is torn from my hand, and I see a man running away. And he has my bag. He. Has. My. Bag. I open my mouth to call for help, but nothing comes out. My brain cells seem to short-circuit all at once. I need to say something, do something, but what? OMG. OMG. OMG. I—