I hear a second disdainful purr, and suddenly Tabby, the next-door-neighbor cat comes waltzing intomyliving room.
Oh, for god’s sake. She must have caught a whiff of my hormonally charged pheromones mixing with Winnie’s foul cat farts, and decided to prance on over for the free show.
“Can you please leave?” I glare at her, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as I sit there with my vibratorstilllodged in my underwear. “You don’t live here. This is not an open invitation.”
I really wish those damn cat flaps only worked for their intended owners. But no, they’re essentially the feline equivalent of pet promiscuity—allowing any Tom, Dick or horny alley cat to sashay right on in at their leisure for a casual home invasion.
“Didn’t your owner ever teach you to mind your own business?”
I might as well just resign myself to finishing up some work, since my libido has now shriveled up.
“Well, I hope you’re both happy now,” I mutter.
I have alotto add to my journal.
I’m absolutely appalled with myself. This is all wrong. I should be masturbating about a sweet, wholesome type. Like a George Knightley type from Jane Austin’sEmma. The kind of guy who would court me with poetry, not angrily bend me over a boardroom table. The mere idea of finding Liam McLaren, Mr. Egotistical Prick himself, even remotely attractive makes my stomach churn in self-loathing.
“What in the hell is wrong with me?” I lament to Winnie, who’s far too preoccupied getting her backend attended to by Tabby to offer any wisdom.
Lizzie breezes back in just after eleven, bringing the smells of the pub with her.
“You’re late,” I observe, trying not to sound as accusatory as I feel.
“I stopped off for a little drinky-poo or two with one of the other guys auditioning.”
“How did this one go?”
“Need to get the tits out if I want the part,” she tosses out breezily.
I blink. “Are you okay with that?”
She waves a careless hand. “It’s art.” Those glassy eyes zero in on me. “And you’d better not still be working, you madwoman.”
I reluctantly close my laptop. “Just finished up.”
“You need to learn to relax more.” She leans over and gives me an unsolicited shoulder rub that I absolutely did not ask for.
“I’m perfectly relaxed,” I insist, trying to shrug her off.
“Your muscles feel like concrete!” she gasps, kneading my poor shoulders with excessive force. “How are you not snapping like a twig under all this tension?”
“I’m literally lying on the couch with a glass of wine,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “How is that not the picture of relaxation? Should I be levitating or something?”
“Oh, Gem.” She takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, and releases it slowly, the stench of tequila washing over me. “It’s all about being in the right state of mind. Leaning into the beautiful uncertainty of it all.”
She’s drunk.
“I don’t have time to lean into anything.” I launch into my itinerary of doom, ticking off each fresh hell on my fingers. “Tomorrow morning I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn, make sure I procure a warm, fragrant sample from Winnie’s litter tray, get to the office early—with the poo—for some huge, mandatory all-staff ‘team building’ meet, then somehow sneak away during my laughably short lunch ‘break’ to drop the lovely biohazard off at the vet’s before racing back to the office to conduct back-to-back interviews until god knows when.”
Lizzie raises an eyebrow at me. “Bloody hell, there’s not a single part of your day that sounds even remotely fun, is there?”
I shrug. That’s something we can both agree on. But no-one ever advertises private equity firms asfun, do they? It’s not something I’d approve on the recruitment ad copy.
Her face softens as she studies me. “You look exhausted. Let me at least take Winnie’s poo to the vet for you in the morning, yeah?”
I blink at her. “You sure?”
“No worries, I got it covered. And let me know if you need anything else taken care of.”
