Читать книгу Confessions: A Secret Diary - Amber Stephens - Страница 8

Chapter Four

Shelley took a train out to Northampton, then jumped in a taxi to the gates of the centre, which was somewhere near the border with Warwickshire. She stared thoughtfully at the discreet plaque on the right fence post as the driver turned in the road and drove off.

‘Fresh Paths’ was all the plaque said. This was the place. An Edwardian manor house set in two-hundred acres of sprawling countryside. It was a grey spring day and the daffodils were well past their best, standing slightly flaccid, petals turning brown.

Shelley shrugged, hefted her case and crunched her way along the gravel path towards her new beginning.

Shelley’s first sexual experience of any account had happened at school. Her friend Rhianna had told her Tom Broachfield fancied her and would she be at all interested in meeting him at lunchtime behind the toilet block. Rhianna was to come too, with her boyfriend, Rod. Though perhaps not the place you might first consider as a love den, the toilets had the advantage of being underused, due to the smell, as well as being out of sight of the school buildings. The bike shed was otherwise engaged, being the place to go for illicit smoking.

Shelley had gone along out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity, as well as loyalty to her friend. The boys were duly waiting for them behind the shed, looking nervous.

‘All right?’ they said.

Rhianna and Rod got right down to business, having dispensed with the formalities on a previous occasion. Shelley sat next to Tom and tried not to listen to the thick glooping sounds coming from the snogging couple. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, and neither, as it turned out, did Tom. Eventually he hissed in a sort of ‘Oh-sod-it-I’m-going-in’ kind of way and made a lunge at Shelley. As she was facing forwards, and made no effort to turn to meet the kiss, he ended up planting a smacker half on her cheek and half on her lip. She sat, stunned. Then he sort of grabbed her face, twisted it in a way supposed to be sensual, but more clammy in effect, and managed to plant one on her lips, which she kept firmly closed.

This went on for some time, and then the bell went. Shelley left, feeling a bit underwhelmed.

‘You’ll be fine next time,’ Rhianna assured her as they walked back to double maths. ‘So do you fancy him then?’

Shelley hadn’t even considered this. Was she supposed to? She liked boys, at least, boys in magazines, and on the telly. The thought of wanting to kiss one of the ones in her class seemed a bit different though. These boys were real, not fantasies. It was as though someone had just told you had to marry your brother.

‘S’pose,’ she replied.

Shelley walked in to the grand, Regency-style reception area and was greeted by one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, standing behind a counter. He had madly stylish hair, loose sculpted curls, and wore a blue Paul Smith shirt with the top button undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He also looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen him on the centre’s website?

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling broadly at her. ‘I’m Cian.’

‘Hello, Cian,’ Shelley replied. ‘I’m Shelley and I’m here for the Sex Addiction programme.’

And then, extraordinarily, the man winked at her. ‘I bet you are, my darling,’ he said, rather suggestively, and then looked at her breasts. ‘Ready for your examination?’

This didn’t seem right. Surely the last person you need on the counter at a sex clinic is Casanova’s less-reserved brother.

‘Mr O’Connor!’ A voice shouted from the other side of the entrance hall. ‘I’ve told you not to talk to the other patients yet, and get out from behind there. That’s for staff only.’

‘Sorry!’ Cian giggled and winked at Shelley again.

The owner of the voice arrived, a short, blonde lady of indeterminate age carrying a clipboard and with her hair in a tight bun. The dowdy suit wasn’t just snug on her, it was tight in all the wrong places, making her torso look like a collection of over-filled water-balloons held together by a woollen sack and secured with tightened belts.

‘Verity Parrish,’ the lady said, proffering a hand.

Shelley shook it and smiled. ‘Shelley Carter,’ she said.

‘Of course, you’re the last to arrive,’ Verity said, ticking something off on her clipboard.

‘Of course? Am I late?’ Shelley asked in alarm.

‘Not at all, everyone else was early, that’s all, must be doubly keen to get on with it, I suppose.’ She frowned at Shelley, eyes seeming to ask a question.

‘Me too!’ Shelley said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Let’s beat this damn addiction.’

‘Leave your bag here. The porter will take it up to your room. You need to just pop along to see Dr Jones, who will chat with you and ask you to sign a couple of forms, and then we’ll see you in the Mounting Room for an introductory session at three sharp.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Shelley said. ‘Did you say the Mounting Room?’

Verity gave her a stern look. ‘Oh dear. I can see we’ll have our work cut out with you. First floor, room 103,’ she said and walked off.

Shelley trudged up the sweeping staircase. Behind her a tubby woman in a tabard stomped out of a side door, saw Shelley’s bag and sighed. ‘Oh fan-fucking-tastic, another pervert’s arrived.’

Shelley inspected the fire-escape plan on the wall, trying to memorise the layout of the centre. The building was composed of three floors, the conference, dining and treatment rooms were on the ground floor along with the kitchens. The first floor held offices and staff quarters. The second floor was mostly patient accommodation. Shelley counted twenty of these en-suite rooms in the building’s two wings.

In addition to the main building, there were outbuildings including the drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, a pool and gym complex and some sheds and what-not. She had already noted the entire complex was enclosed by a twelve-foot wall, useful for keeping people in as well as out. Shelley started to wonder whether Aidan’s plan wasn’t just to stick her here out of the way while he got on with re-organising the magazine. Why hadn’t he just fired her? Did he want to force her to resign, giving up any redundancy she might be entitled to?

She stumped down the neutrally-decorated corridor, feet silent on the plush carpet and reached room 103. She knocked.

‘Come in!’ a voice called from inside.

Shelley found the director of the centre, Dr Janet Jones, sitting behind an enormous desk almost empty apart from a tiny laptop and a single sheet of paper. Shelley judged she might be in her late fifties, though perhaps younger as the menopause might explain her florid complexion. She had light brown hair, probably dyed.

‘Shelley Carter?’ Dr Jones asked. ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly, without waiting for a response.

Shelley did as she was told.

‘So,’ Dr Jones said, pulling a manila folder out of a drawer. She peered into it.

‘You’re a nurse?’

‘Yes,’ Shelley replied. She had been worrying she might get found out, but if this was the level of the questioning, she had no concerns.

‘You have a penchant for sleeping with patients.’ Dr Jones said matter-of-factly.

‘And doctors, and other nurses,’ Shelley replied.

‘You are bisexual?’ Dr Jones inquired. ‘The file doesn’t make it clear.’

‘Err yeah, sure. ‘Shelley said, realising she was making it all up anyway. ‘In for a penny.’

‘Who’s Penny? A lover?’ Dr Jones inquired, an eyebrow raised.

‘No, just an expression,’ Shelley replied.

Dr Jones pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Nurse Smith, could you come to Dr Jones’ office for an examination please?’

Shelley froze. Examination? Was this to be a physical examination? Worse yet, was she to be searched? Suddenly the BlackBerry in her inside jacket pocket felt enormous, she was sure Dr Jones must be able to see the bulge.

‘It’s a little stuffy in here,’ Shelley said. ‘Do you mind if I remove my jacket?’

‘Not at all,’ Dr Jones said absently, still reading through Shelley’s file.

Shelley stood, took off her jacket and walked over to the hat stand in the corner, she popped the jacket on a hook and sat back down just as the door opened. The plump nurse came in, saw Shelley and rolled her eyes.

Dr Jones looked up. ‘Thank you Sandra, please could you …’ and she waved airily at Shelley.

‘Behind that screen please,’ Sandra said. Shelley did as she asked, terrified she’d notice the jacket and want to check that too.

Behind the screen, Sandra looked her in the eye and whispered, ‘You’d better not look like you’re enjoying this.’

Shelley blinked by way of response.

‘Cos most of your lot do, you know. I’m not here to give you cheap thrills. Now turn around and spread your legs.’

Shelley was too shocked to do anything but obey. Sandra had one of those authoritative voices possessed only by senior nurses and royalty. Shelley heard Sandra’s knees crack and then felt rough hands running up her leg. She found herself wishing she’d shaved. As Sandra’s hand slid between her legs, Shelley tensed and was sure the nurse must realise what she was feeling was the exact opposite of someone enjoying the experience. Surely she’d be found out.

Sandra ran her hands up Shelley’s sides, cupped her breasts and patted down her back.

‘She’s clear,’ the nurse said and stumped off. Shelley straightened herself and went back to Dr Jones’s desk.

Dr Jones suddenly sighed, as if tired of the whole affair. Shelley noticed her eyes flicker to the desk drawer. She pushed a couple of forms over to Shelley. ‘Would you mind signing these?’

‘What are they?’ Shelley asked. Not that she really cared. Aidan would sort out any legal difficulties she got herself into. He’d promised her and though she wasn’t at all happy with her assignment she trusted him to not let her get into any serious difficulties.

‘One’s a Section Four voluntary admission form, the other is for insurance,’ Dr Jones replied, speaking slowly, now openly staring at the desk drawer. Shelley felt as if she were intruding.

She signed the forms and pushed them back.

‘Right, good luck and all that,’ Dr Jones said vaguely. Shelley realised she was expected to leave now.

‘Right. Am I supposed to go to the Mounting Room now?’

Dr Jones peered at her intently, nodding slightly. ‘The Mountain Room, I think.’

‘Ah. That makes more sense,’ Shelley replied, relieved.

‘Downstairs towards the back of the building, follow the signs,’ Dr Jones said as Shelley grabbed her jacket and left.

‘My name is Shelley …’ Shelley was saying. Seven expectant faces looked at her interestedly, urging her on. She paused and looked around at the room. It said ‘Sales Conference’ to her. Bland décor, boring furniture, tedious pictures on the wall. And the inevitable brainstorming pad on an easel.

Verity Parrish coughed beside her.

‘… and I’m a sex addict,’ Shelley finished.

She shrugged and looked around at the group. Everyone wore a name tag. To Shelley’s right sat an attractive if slightly used-looking lady, probably in her forties, called Rose. Shelley vaguely recognised her, she thought, from some long-forgotten tabloid story.

To Shelley’s left was a smooth forty-plus man; his name was Will. Facing her, from left to right, were Abigail, Cliff, Cheryl, Cian, and Larry. Verity hadn’t done formal introductions yet. The idea was that they were all supposed to give a little bit of a self-introduction before the main session got underway. During the course of the next week, each would have to give a full and frank account of why they were here. This would be a no-holds barred descent into the excesses that had led to them deciding they needed help. The magazine wasn’t really interested in how these people might be helped, or what happened to them later. Vixen was after the salacious ‘before’ details, not the more worthy but duller ‘after’ picture.

Shelley tried to inspect her fellow inmates without making it obvious she was doing so. The others all seemed to be doing the same, apart from Larry, who was staring out the window. Shelley reckoned he was the only one younger than her.

Shelley was first to speak that day – she’d agreed to that on condition she’d be last to give her full story, for which she was grateful. She figured she’d have till Friday before she’d have to make her ‘confessional’. The thought of it was already making her nervous. She was rubbish at lying and it wasn’t as if she had any appropriate life experiences to draw on. She was supposed to be a sex-obsessed nurse who’d spent the last eighteen months in Australia. Instead she was a sex-starved journalist who’d spent the last eighteen years in Clapham.

‘Just a little about yourself for now, please Shelley, you don’t need to go into detail just yet,’ Verity said in an encouraging, and slightly patronising, tone.

Shelley took a deep breath and tried to remember the cover story Aidan had put together for her. ‘Er,’ she began. ‘I’m a nurse, and I got in trouble because I slept with a patient.’ She saw Cian nodding at her, grinning; he gave her the thumbs up. ‘Actually, I slept with more than one,’ she said, causing Cliff and Cheryl to prick up their ears. ‘… and also some doctors …’ Will stroked his chin and looked at her legs, ‘… and some nurses …’ Rose raised an eyebrow, ‘… and once a video of me ended up on the internet,’ Larry sat bolt upright, ‘… and then I was found tied to a hospital gurney with some straps, stark naked.’ This last brought interest from Abigail. ‘… and I had to leave the hospital in disgrace.’ She went on. ‘My brother paid for me to come here: he’s trying to stop me dragging the family name through the mud.’

By the time Shelley had finished, all seven of her fellow addicts were gazing at her in various states of interest, from the openly lecherous (Larry) to the disbelieving (Abigail).

‘That’s it,’ Shelley said weakly, and sat down.

‘Thanks Shelley,’ Verity said. ‘Who’d like to go next?’

‘I will,’ said Rose, She had long blonde ponytail, and she had a strong cockney accent, like someone hamming it up on EastEnders. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a top that showed off her considerable cleavage. She didn’t stand, but leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees, as if she’d been preparing this for sometime and wanted to get it just right.

‘I was a porn star,’ Rose said. ‘Some of you might know me – I went by the name Rose Saintly.’

‘Oh yes,’ Cian said. Larry, sitting next to him, nodded as well.

Rose winked at them and continued. ‘All that’s behind me now, at least the film work. I’m too old. Problem is, I developed certain … habits, or shall we say tastes, while I was in the business. And I’ve been indulging them a bit too much in the last few years. I need to break out and have a proper relationship, while there’s still time.’

She sat, and Shelley wondered if she was talking about wanting to have children. She wasn’t sure if the new magazine would be interested in that side of the story, or whether they just wanted the sex stuff. She determined to try and find out anyway.

Next was Abigail. Tall, raven-haired and exquisitely beautiful in a cold way, she’d been watching Shelley with an appraising eye since she’d entered the room. Abigail wore a miniscule skirt and thigh-high boots. She’d stood and announced clearly and confidently, ‘My name is Abigail, I’m a sex addict. I’m thirty-four and have been a dominatrix for the past four years, full-time; before that I just dabbled. I love inflicting pain, and have got to the point where I can’t enjoy a normal sex life. I need help.’

She sat, and resumed staring at Shelley.

Next to speak was Will. He wasn’t bad-looking though wore an expression that said he knew it. He introduced himself in a Northern accent as Will Trewin, a merchant banker. This caused giggles between Cian and Larry, who seemed to have become firm friends already. Shelley wished she were sitting next to them. Will glared at them and went on. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m a serial adulterer. I love my wife, Mand, and our little lad. But I just can’t help myself. I’ve sworn off the affairs so many times, and Mand’s forgiven me nearly as many. But she’s finally put her foot down. If I can’t mend me ways, she’s off. So here I am.’

After Will, Cliff and Cheryl stood together. Verity explained:

‘Cliff and Cheryl are here together, as a couple. This is not unusual. We often have couples here at the clinic hoping to improve their sex lives. But it is unusual to have a couple in an addiction programme, please make them feel welcome.’ She waved at them to begin.

‘We are most definitely sex addicts,’ Cliff laughed. ‘We’re swingers and like to take part in threesomes, foursomes and more-somes regularly. Now that would be okay, as we both feel the same way about it …’

Cheryl nodded. They were a good-looking couple, Shelley couldn’t help but notice. Cheryl was slim, with boyish hips and short, sandy hair. Cliff was average height, with wide-set eyes and the sort of familiar, even face that made him look an actor you spend the whole movie trying to remember what you’ve seen them in before. Most of the swingers Shelley had read about looked like they’d fallen out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, been stung by bees and landed on their faces.

Cliff went on. ‘But the problem is we want our own sex life to be just as good, like it used to be. And we’re increasingly finding we’re just not interested unless there are other people involved.’

‘We want our own sex life back,’ Cheryl finished. They smiled at each other and sat down.

Next was Cian. ‘Wotcher,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Right, I’m Cian O’Connor, lead singer of The Cossacks.’

That’s where I’ve seen him before, Shelley thought to herself.

‘I’m here because I can’t stop knobbing endless lines of women. It’s not that I don’t like it, but I think I’ve had enough really and need to settle down. My career’s suffering and me old man’s not too happy with the direction my life’s taking. Tada!’ he finished with a flourish and sat down. God, he was good looking. Briony would say he was the sort of man you wanted to bite bits off of.

Last to speak was the Larry, the young Asian man sitting to Cian’s right, and Verity’s left. He introduced himself as Larry Bala. ‘I’m a Singaporean sex addict,’ he proclaimed, with a shy grin. He had lovely jet-black hair and perfect skin. ‘Or at least I’m a wank addict cos I just can’t stop masturbating. I spend up to twelve hours a day on the internet, looking at porn and quite frankly, ladies and gentlemen, the stuff I’m looking at is just getting weirder and weirder. Plus there have been some, er, incidents in public. I need to turn my hand to something else, my father said. So here I am.’

Now Shelley realised why everyone had taken an interest in her story. There was apparently something there for everyone. Well that was okay, she could use that to her advantage, get them to open up more outside the formal sessions.

‘Thank you everyone,’ Verity said, shuffling her papers. ‘Now, if you’d all like to help yourselves to a cup of tea or coffee, and use the facilities. Then we need to press on with the full confessionals. Shelley has already said she wants to go last. But would anyone like to volunteer to go first?’

‘Yes,’ said Rose without hesitation. Shelley turned to look at her. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to tell this story for ages now, and it’s all ready to fall out my head if I wait any longer.’

‘Fine, let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes, and we’ll hear what Rose has to say. I know you’ve all been fully briefed on the content of the course, but let me just reiterate that you are all expected to give a warts-and-all account, what we call a ‘confessional’ of the events that led to you coming here. If you can’t open up to us and tell us the truth, then you can’t open up to what you are for yourself.’

Shelley winced at the appalling sentence structure. It sounded like so much cod psychology to her. But she nodded along with the rest, her mind wandering and thinking of the BlackBerry in her jacket. She wanted to hide it in her bag, but was worried Sandra would search it, looking for pornography or sex toys. Any kind of recording device or means of communication with the outside world was forbidden.

Rewriting the story later would be long-winded on the BlackBerry’s tiny keyboard, but unless Rose turned out to be the Catherine Cookson of the porn industry, her story would need editing anyway. Aidan had asked Shelley to do her best to relate each story in the style and vernacular of the person telling it. In the old days reporters used to phone their copy through to sub-editors back in the office.

Shelley was actually quite glad she didn’t have her own mobile, and not just because she didn’t have to read any more embarrassing texts from Gavin. Briony had a tendency to download intensely irritating ring tones and set them up to go off at top volume on Shelley’s phone, which she’d then hide at the bottom of Shelley’s bag. Last week she’d had to endure a mortifying forty-five seconds on the tube rummaging through her bag, flipping tampons everywhere while looking for the damn thing as it played ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’, by the Dead Kennedys.

‘So Rose, we want everything!’ Verity was saying to the voluptuous blonde.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rose replied, smiling. ‘You’re gonna get it.’