Chapter Twenty-Five
BEA
Saturday I’m back at the hospital, though my mind is anywhere but here. I can’t ever remember feeling as distracted as I do today. But it’s a good thing. I mean, I’m not so unfocused I’m threatening lives.
I’m just... a little love-struck and teenager-y. Which is a very new sensation for me.Maybe I’m dick drunk?But I don’t think so. The sexisgreat, and Natasha was absolutely right about bisexuals because Kit is like the sexual unicorn personified.Without the whole horse thing, unless we’re talking about him being hung.
Truthfully, I think the appeal has less to do with Kit being bisexual and more to do with him just being him.
As in, as dirty as all get-out.
No clinics are held on Saturday, and while it sometimes sucks to work weekends—especially when your friends have already left for Scotland for tomorrow’s christening and movie star schmooze—the day is usually a little quieter. So much so that, when one o’clock rolls around, I’m able to grab some lunch in the staff restaurant.
Management says restaurant. I ask, where is this place?
It’s definitely more of a canteen than anything.
I queue, pay for my sandwich, a bottle of water, and a slice of pre-packaged carrot cake, and then head off to find a secluded table to eat and scroll through my phone. Because no one wants to be overlooked during their Rumblr perve.As I make my way to a table by the window, I swipe an abandoned newspaper from one of the tables I pass, wondering how often Kit or Rory get pap’d.
Rather them than me, I think.
I eat and I scroll, making a few mental substitutions for Kit’s face in a couple of the GIFs, and then, as I’ve a few minutes left, I flip open the paper for a quick read.
Ick. The newspaper might be a cast-off rather than one I’ve bought, but even I have better taste than this tacky tabloid. Had I realised it was from one of the country’s most inflammatory presses, I’d have been more inclined to leave it or pick it up and chuck it in the bin. Not interested in the rubbish a rag like this prints, I decide to get back to work.
The chair grates against the floor as I push it back, gathering my trash. I flip the newspaper closed then quickly open it again. Something about the photograph under a screaming headline stood out.
The image is of a man in a suit coming out of an elegant building, clearly shocked by both the flash of the camera and the presence of a tabloid reporter.
He’s not draped in women dressed like prostitutes and doesn’t appear to have a bag full of kittens to throw into the Thames. So it’s not immediately clear why the headline screamsThe Right Dishonourable!
Until the familiar setting and the text all fall into place.
MP Member of Exclusive SEX CLUB!reads the subheading.
In the big splashy front page pic, the he in question—apparently a British Member of Parliament—looks horrified. And well he should; he promotes himself as an upstanding family man and is apparently calling for a government crackdown on what he terms as ‘Britain’s degeneration into vice’. At least, according to the article. As well as horrified, he also looks pretty horrific, the bright camera flash shining off his balding pate, and his mouth open in a silent threat.
Front page news that might mean something to those interested in the lives of others or perhaps the government, but for me, it’s not the article or the headlines that grab my attention.
Just the building. One I recognise, at least from the outside.
The uniformed sash windows. The black front door with the gleaming brass letterbox, and the tall bay tree sentries. The same club I saw Kit leaving the morning I almost punched him.
Despite feeling icky about reading this awful rag, the tenuous connection I have to this story urges me to continue reading. After scanning the tiny column of text—most of the page taken by photographs and the headlines—I turn the page to a double page feature spread. It’s littered with photographs that appear to have been taken without any of the subjects’ notice. A married couple who present a breakfast show, an actor or two, and other persons of note, all coming or going from the building I recognise. With a small jolt, I notice an image in the bottom left hand corner is of Kit Tremaine.
The picture was definitely taken without his knowledge and during the evening, though it’s hard to tell if he’s leaving or arriving as he stands with one hand on the door and the other on a woman’s ass. It’s captioned asKit Tremaine, Playboy Hotelier Plays.It’s very unlike how he was described in the article I read the other day.That the woman isn’t me is... okay. I’m not keen on the whole “playboy” thing, but it’s not like he was created for me last week, totally fuckable but virginal and unused. There were women before me.And men. All totally cool, except... he’s wearing the same suit as he wore last night.
And he was as hard as a rock when we parted ways.
That doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. A man doesn’t say he can’t function daily for thoughts of you—doesn’t ask if he can keep you—and then go fuck at a sex club the same day.Night?Because, in this picture, he must be fucking, or at least about to, by the way his hand is placed.
His body language is so territorial and something I understand because I feel... angry. Irrationally betrayed. And a little bit sick as I scan the text for further clues.
The club, rumoured to be called the Den, is owned by a wealthy property developer by the name of Daniel Masters. Ken Pritchard, member for Ross under Lyme, was photographed leaving the building at 1am this morning. Mr Pritchard was unavailable for comment at his constituency this morning... blah-blah-blah.
Membership fees are rumoured to be in the tens of thousands and include a cover charge for kinky shows, orgies, and the use of exclusive themed rooms. More blah.
When contacted, Mr Master’s office declined to comment.Hardly surprising.
