Chapter One
Ivy
‘Oh, my God! Look at that sausage!’
Typical. Friday night book club and, as usual, Natasha has her eyes glued to her phone. I bet she hasn’t even read this week’s book; she probably spent most of her free time drooling over one of the many cooking videos from her Facebook feed.Feed being the operative word. She does love her food, and particularly, anything meaty. I shiver at the notion of the fleshy substance, placing a bowl of dip and crudités on the low table in the centre of my tiny living room.
‘I’m going to instigate a no-phone rule before next Friday’s meetup. And before you ask, no, you can’t bring a sausage dish next week.’ She really is enough to drive a vegan to drown in soy latte. ‘Not chorizo, salami, bratwurst, or any of that stuff.’
‘Oh-ho-oh.’ Less word than a dirty snigger, Nat keeps her blond head lowered, and her gaze glued to the screen of her phone. ‘It’s not a recipe I’m looking at, but more of a sausage fest. I wouldn’t mind a taste of this particular bit of meat, if you know what I mean.’
I close my eyes and sigh, realising exactly what she’s looking at, because it’s a fact her love of food porn is only surpassed by her love ofactual porn.Honestly, does no one use their phone for calling these days?Not Nat, at least. If you were unlucky enough to get a look at her browsing history, you’d probably only see three things:
Food. Food Network. Tasty. Thosehow-to-cook-amazing-thingsvideos. It’s definitely a voyeuristic interest on her part as I’m sure her culinary skills don’t exceed much more than burning toast.
Porn. The Hub. The Hamster. The Tube. Though she draws the line at any of those pay-per-wank subscription sites. Her words, not mine.
Celebrity stalking. And this is probably what takes the lion’s share of her data plan. Can she name three world leaders or a UNESCO World Heritage Site? Probably not, but I bet she can tell you exactly where the Kardooshians dined last night.
‘Nat,’ I reply wearily.Sowearily. ‘You know how I feel about you watching porn.’
‘I know how you feel about me watching pornat work,’ she corrects. ‘But, Boss Lady, I’m not on the clock now.’
Natasha is the Beauty Treatment Manager at my newly opened hair and beauty salon downstairs. At twenty-one, she’s five years younger than I am and on the surface, a wee bit brash. But I’ve known her all her life. Well, at least since June, my grandmother’s best friend, took her in. There’s a side to her people don’t take the time to see. Or maybe it’s more a side that’s hard to see beyond her voluptuous frame and tiny clothing. That and her peroxide blond mane. But beyond the dolly-bird exterior, she’s incredibly kind and warm-hearted. So maybe her outsides don’t exactly match her insides, but she often has an emotional understanding beyond her years.
And then there are the other times. Times like this, when it seems like she’s just come off Ritalin.
‘Your granny will be here in a minute.’ I’m not sure this is much of a deterrent beyond my warning tone. As a semi-permanent fixture in the salon and a member of our smutty book club, Nat’s grandmother, June, has a fairly liberal attitude.
Cock is such a braw word, don’t you think? Wonderful, virile and . ..hard. I wished Mills and Boone had used it in their stories back in my day. It’s my favourite word!
‘Well, I hope she remembered her reading glasses ‘cause she’ll not want to miss this.’ Nat’s gaze moves momentarily from the screen, one eyebrow raised in a taunt. ‘I imagine you’ll want a keek, too. I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the business end of this sausage, but I know you’ve met who it’s attached to.’
I think my heart stops—misses a beat or something—as my mind begins to whirr. Since returning to the village after years of living in London and then the States, I haven’t been involved with anyone.Well, not that anyone would know.So is it any wonder my mind jumps to the last person I want to think about while simultaneously questioninghow the flip could she know?It’s a reflex reaction, and a panic I quickly discard because there’s no way Natashacouldknow. Because no one does. It’s just my guilty conscience talking, which could only mean she has some dirty pictures of...
‘Is it Bradley Cooper’s sausage—I mean—is it Bradley Cooper?’ So I might be a little excited, even if I do have to rub my chest to ease a pinch of guilt, because celebrities ought to be entitled to keep their lives private. As well as their privates off the internet.Yep, even your celebrity crush.
‘Have you met Bradley Cooper?’ she asks a little incredulously.
I shake my head. While I have styled some of most well-known heads in Hollywood, I haven’t had my hands on that beauty. ‘I did once stare at him for a whole half hour from the other side of the salon floor.’ Because, up until a few months ago, I worked in one of L.A.’s top salons—a flagship store—where I held the lofty title ofArt Director.
‘I’ll never understand why you came back to Scotland,’ Nat adds, not attempting to hide her disgust.
‘I just wanted to come home.’ I offer a quick shrug along with my lie; I’m getting pretty good at lying and all kind of evasion. And if this crappy village is my home, I may as well be homeless.
In front of me, Natasha purses her lips in disbelief before holding out her hands to mimic a set of weighing scales. ‘Auchkeld or L.A.? Old lady perms or Lady Gaga’s head?’
‘Who’s giving Lady Gaga head?’ June, Nat’s granny, pulls a mint-green cardigan over her thin shoulders, shivering as she enters my living room. ‘Deary-me. It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’
‘And we’ve got someone hung like a horse in here.’ Nat presses something on her phone, turning the screen to face us, and though neither of us can see exactly what’s playing on the tiny screen, the unmistakable sounds of sex fill the small room.
‘Is that one of those sex videotape things?’ asks a pink-cheeked June.
Her cheeks could be flushed from the cold outside, though if I know June, and I do, I’d say she’s probably a wee bit excited. She’ll have a stroke one of these days, and not the kind she’d like to receive, because I’ve seen the way she flutters her lashes at Mr. Poletti, the ancient barber from the shop along the street.
‘Is it the Gaga?’ she asks eagerly, hurrying her ancient frame across the room. She may be only a kick in the bum off her ninetieth year, but she can move pretty fast if there’s filth involved.
‘Oh, God. Harder! Yes—right there.’
