Rex grabbed her by the hair as his pace quickened, pressing himself harder against her. He was quickening and she touched herself so they would come together. Perhaps this time she’d barely need it. Perhaps, she thought, the decision to use sex for procreation could improve the sex itself. Now that would be an interesting finding. There was no column on her spreadsheet for that life hack.
‘Yes,’ he groaned, ‘now, come, baby, please,’ and they both let out a cry of pleasure as he came, his body jerking on top of her. He rolled off her, panting, his dark hair damp, and his shirt crumpled. She looked at him, thinking to herself that for a 45-year-old guy, he really wasn’t in bad shape – and the just-been-fucked look seemed to suit him. He was pretty scruffy anyway, with his unshaven face and unkempt hair, so this just seemed to complement his look. So far he’d avoided the middle-aged paunch and she hadn’t found any grey hairs, yet.
‘Now, anything else I need to do before I go to work,’ he said roguishly, smiling at her. ‘Just because I’m the boss, doesn’t mean I can be hours late every day!’ He jumped up, rearranged himself, leaned over to give her a kiss, and whispered in her ear, ‘Now sleepy angel, don’t you need to get that pert little ass to work as well?’
‘Actually I have an appointment with the gynaecologist this morning.’
‘Another?’
‘I just want to check everything’s in order. Nothing specific. Just a check-up. I’m nearly 40. I need to know the plumbing all works.’
‘There’s nothing I need to know?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘I’m sure everything is fine. How could it not be?’ He leaned down and kissed the dark triangle of hair. ‘A little extra kiss to send you on your way, and to make sure I don’t forget to think about you all day…’
‘You’re gross, go on, away with you,’ she shouted after him.
She lay there in the middle of their flat, still naked, as the first warm sun of spring moved across her. Rex was amazing, she knew that; she was lucky. He wasn’t a rock star, or even a country star, no, but she knew he would be a great dad and he would always be there for her – he was kind, caring and steady. Twenty years ago those words would have filled her with dread, but she’d grown up. Now he was what she needed. The time for – what was it Dixie called them – the time for ‘wild-cards’ was over. Her life had been simply mapped onto the decades. Teen: discover sex, excel. Twenties: ‘wild-card’ sex, transcend. Thirties, baby daddy sex, effortless. Forties: parental/missionary sex, functional and recreational. Ana was never going to get married. That was a decision she’d made long ago. If you never got married, you could never regret getting married. OK, so her life with Rex wasn’t the most exciting, but they had fun, they laughed, and as far as the happily-ever-after went, this wasn’t the worst outcome. The spreadsheet didn’t lie. And as long as they kept having sex, everything would be OK. Sex made everything OK.
Chapter Three
Dixie
Dixie’s Tinder life needed a spring-clean. She’d recently reset her age – again. She knew there was a limit to the number of times social media platforms permitted age changes, but she was going to be in Manhattan for a few days so, why not get some new selfies in the BA lounge then she could retouch them, add a bit here, lose a bit there… She could reinvent herself for a few days of fantasy fucking between the meetings and parties. Pouting into her phone as she primped her curly red hair, she congratulated herself on the Rimmel Radioactive Red lip gloss, and the mahogany tint she’d washed through her hair before last night’s party. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a magical light. She was, she thought, zooming in on an image, looking astounding, especially given the carnage of the night before. What was that guy’s name? Something to do with cars? Lancia? Lance! 0–60 in 4.6 but he’ll never get you to your destination. Dixie’s ex-husband, Carlton, had driven a Lancia. Enough said. Aunt Pearl had told her the marriage would never work, but being Dixie she didn’t listen. Being orphaned at a young age and brought up by your great aunt had its advantages, but Pearl had never managed to keep Dixie on the straight and narrow.
‘Would you like me to take a picture for you?’ came a low husky voice from behind her, shaking her out of her reverie.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘are you talking to me?’
‘Yes,’ said the warm voice, resonating like a cello. Dixie turned and was taken aback to see a tall, slim, dark-haired man with lively blue eyes and half a smile. ‘I wondered if you would like me to take a photo of you so you can maybe get a better angle. Did you want the Dreamliner in the background?’
Fuck, he’s hot, thought Dixie. A wedding ring, yes, but still, he was hot. But that could be good, couldn’t it? No crying when she didn’t want to see him again.
‘Dreamliner? So that’s what they call it. Good plane knowledge,’ she smirked, wondering if he was some kind of weird plane nerd. ‘Yes, a photo would be great, thank you.’
To her surprise he knew exactly what he was doing – held the phone high to get the right angle (makes you look thinner) and took about five pictures in quick succession so she could choose the best one. He must have a demanding wife, she thought.
‘Quite the expert,’ said Dixie, holding her hand out and flashing her green eyes. ‘I am Dixie, and you are?’
‘Freddie, nice to meet you. And where might you be headed? Off to meet your boyfriend?’
She hadn’t clocked him checking her ring finger. Player, she decided. Why not? she thought.
‘Oh, New York, just a few meetings. Nothing special. And you?’
She allowed her gaze to linger on his wedding band, seeing how he’d react.
‘Looks like I am heading east with you – we have offices in London so I regularly fly out. I love London, but I chose New York. London’s all water, and Manhattan, electricity.’
‘I totally know what you mean, there is something so energising about the place. Not to mention the awesome shopping!’ she said, but then checked herself, worried she was sounding far too enthusiastic. Let him do the work, she thought. ‘Anyway, it’s been nice to meet you, Freddie, and I hope you have a successful trip… and thank you for the photo – maybe see you on the other side.’ With that, she strode away, knowing damn well his eyes were following her decisive exit. Always quit while you are ahead, that was her motto. Leave them wanting more. Besides, her nose was running and tender, and elsewhere there was something leaking. She needed a restroom.
As the staff at the gate scanned her boarding pass, she heard the little beep and saw the red light that she longed for and, abracadabra, she was upgraded to business. So far, so good, she thought to herself – a hot man and an upgrade. Not bad for a glorified PA. She had worked for Peter Pomerov for nearly fifteen years. He had a Russian name, but a background as English as most Tory prime ministers: Eton, Oxford, The Bar. He trusted her like a wife – actually more. She did everything for him, arranging his travel, flying around the world managing his properties, and in return he had a way of orchestrating things like upgrades. They adored each other, and the truth was she would have done anything for him. He ran a family office, the complete history of which she remained unaware. He had his finger in multiple pies (but never hers!), and she was aware of how lucky she was to have landed such a great job with such a kind, tolerant and honest man. It was supposed to be a stopgap when she’d needed work while the divorce came through. She’d always dreamed of being an illustrator – she’d even started a children’s book fifteen years before – of using her brain and her artistic skills, but she couldn’t see an achievable career path, and with her messy divorce dragging on, she’d needed something simple and well paid. She’d been offered internships, but the money was virtually non-existent, and pretty soon the draw of mingling with men with money and power was something she took for granted, and she was unable to walk away. She needed money and men like she needed food and water. She was just increasingly happier with more money and many men. Like her ideal career path, the path to settled domesticity and monogamy was a road she couldn’t imagine travelling.