Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I don’t judge,” Martine says loftily. “I mean, I’ll listen. If there’s a tale to tell. But no judgment here, my friend.”
“There’s no tale,” I insist.
“Pity. I don’t know why we women don’t avail ourselves of the services of a professional more often. I mean, I hire a personal trainer to keep my ass in trim, and a dermatologist for my face. Why not a specialist for my vagina?”
“I think that would be a gynecologist.”
“I’ve got one of those too. But there’s more than one way it should be taken care of, right?”
I chuckle.
“Makes me think, though,” she says, turning to the window and the gray-blue view over the city. Winter daylight hours are short. “Another couple of years in this place, and I’ll be able to get me one of those on retainer.”
“One of what?” My question stutters out in another chuckle.
“A professional.” She gives a wiggle of her brows. Her aesthetician must be great. “Sounds pretty perfect to me. None of the complications and all of the orgasms.”
Until you can’t stop thinking about him. Which leaves you with more complications. But also, more orgasms. Self-administered.
Time to move the conversation on.
“Do you think the men who build these glass-and-metal towers realize they all look like penises?”
“Ryan, men are almost always thinking about their dicks without even realizing it.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“They have two heads, but they can only use one at a time. I think it must be like being tied to the village idiot sometimes.”
“It would answer a lot of questions, I guess.”
“Everywhere you look in London, from Nelson’s Column to the Shard, there are dicks as far as the eye can see.”
“The Shard would be a very unfortunate penis,” I say. “Kind of stabby, all that unbalanced girth and pointy end.”
“We need more female architect leads, because it’s only going to get worse. I mean”—she moves closer as though ready to divulge a secret—“there’s a building currently going through planning called Undershaft. Undershaft. Can you believe that? Wasn’t there a consultation over the name?”
“That’s kind of . . . special.”
“If there was a consultation, you can bet your sweet arse it didn’t include women. Or not enough of them. Of course, you know what’s under the shaft, don’t you? Balls,” she adds with a decisive nod.
“Oh, my Lord.” This is a conversation and a half!
“And you didn’t hear it from me, but Maven Inc. has its sticky fingers in another project I heard they’ve internally christened the Dildo.”
“Internally? Really, Martine?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“You’ve got to be making that up.”
“Sadly, I’m not that creative. Or else I wouldn’t be working in finance.” A pause. “Did you get up to anything interesting on the weekend?”
“Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I signed the lease on my new apartment—no more serviced accommodation for me!” It’s been a bonus, but there’s nothing quite like having your own space.
“Well, that’s wonderful!”
“I get the keys this week.”
“Congratulations. Sounds like you’re about to become a real Londoner.”
“High praise,” I say with a laugh, lifting my coffee to my lips again.
“Praise is my love language.” She gently jostles my shoulder with hers. “Well, that and blow jobs.”
“What the hell!” I splutter, spraying coffee all over the window.
Nine a.m., and the office has come to life, though the vibe is a little different from usual, the buzz increased. The floor of a hedge fund isn’t ordinarily a quiet place to work. There are quiet spots, but mostly the offices are full of go-getters and proactive folk. As hard work is usually only acknowledged at bonus time, and by money and rarely by praise, people tend to be loud about their achievements in their day-to-day business. But they’re not bigging themselves up this morning. Strangely, the buzz seems a little hushed. Awed, maybe?
This is interesting to me, but not as interesting as the smorgasbord of breakfast foods a catering company has laid out.
“What have you got there?” Arthur, one of the junior traders, asks, hovering by my shoulder.
“This? A Portuguese tart, I think.”
“Sounds like my last girlfriend.”
“What would she call you, I wonder?” I don’t quite manage to keep the bite from my tone.
Arthur pauses as though giving my question some thought. “Probably ‘that workaholic wanker,’” he answers candidly, then reaches for a Danish pastry. “Gor, dees are goog.”
“I’m not sure they’re a one-mouthful kind of pastry,” I say with a chuckle as I add a little fruit to my plate. Melon, papaya, and pineapple. I avoid the grapes because you know they’re just gonna roll right off my plate. “Why are we the only ones eating?”
“Post-Christmas diet blitz and New Year’s resolutions to maintain for, oh, at least ten days.”
“You’re funny.”
“Funny enough for you to buy me dinner?”
I think the local vernacular would refer to Arthur as a chancer.
I slant him a look as I pop a small slice of pineapple into my mouth, mainly to stop myself from responding Umm . . . how about ah-hell no. “Ew.” Suddenly, my mouth turns down, filled with sourness.