Chapter 19
Cal
‘Why are you calling me?’ my little sister asks. At least, I think that’s what she asks. It’s not one hundred percent intelligible over the din of toddler shrieks.
They’re happy shrieks, at least.
I think?
It sounds like carnage over there. I glance around my gorgeous, minimalist penthouse flat and inwardly congratulate myself on my life choices so far.
Annabel is married to a fund manager called Giles.
They live in Fulham and own way too many Cath Kidston tea towels and have popped out two babies, twenty months apart, which is incidentally the same age gap as between me and her.
Obviously, Annabel is my parents’ favourite because she’s produced grandkids and at least pretends to conduct herself like a responsible adult.
She and Giles are indescribably sensible and boring, and if I didn’t adore my sister so much, I’d despise them.
‘Just calling to check in,’ I say, my nonchalance belying the fact that she rarely hears from me, WhatsApps and drunken voice notes aside.
‘Bollocks,’ she says. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No! Course not. How are Gracie and Harry?’
The kids favour Giles’ thin blonde hair and ruddy cheeks. Happily, his unfortunate genetics look fucking adorable on them.
‘Alive, as you can hear,’ my sister says drily.
There’s a clatter of what sounds like lots of dishes and pans being piled into the sink, and I grimace and lower the volume on my AirPods. ‘Is this a bad time?’
‘I have two kids under three. It’s always a bad time.’ She sighs. ‘Sorry. No, it’s fine. They’ve just had their tea. They’re all good. Just a bit lively.’
My heart gives a tug. My sister is a saint. A living saint. I make a mental note to treat her to a day at a spa and rope Mum in to babysit. Writing a cheque I can handle. Offering myself up for childcare I cannot.
‘Okay, well…’ I say. ‘I’ll just cut to the chase, shall I? I need some advice.’
‘Dating advice?’ She says it with a hopeful lilt to her tone that tugs at my conscience.
‘No. Sex advice.’
‘Jesus, Cal!’ she splutters. ‘Warn a girl.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Why the hell are you calling me? You know a million times more about… that stuff than me. Besides, you’re my brother. That whole topic should be off limits. I try to tell myself you’re just a nice, mercenary hedge fund manager.’
I laugh. Rafe, Zach and I run a small investment vehicle, Cerulean, with some of our other mates from the City.
It’s a hedge fund that mainly manages our own money, and it makes us all enough that we can enjoy Alchemy without ever worrying about paying the bills.
Everyone pitches in and trades their own area of expertise, mine being corporate debt and related instruments.
I spend one day a week there, but I enjoy Alchemy far more.
‘Still a sex club owner. Sorry to disappoint.’
‘So why are you calling me?’
I hesitate. ‘There’s a woman. She’s come to our club—she’s recently divorced. Her husband cheated on her and she needs some TLC. I’m going to be, um, looking after her.’ I clear my throat. This is awkward as fuck, because Annabel’s under no illusions as to what looking after her means.
‘Go on,’ she says through gritted teeth that suggest she’s regretting everything about this.
‘Um. Well, she’s gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.
I’ll tell you more about her a bit down the line, because it’s going to be, um, public knowledge, but let’s come back to that.
For now, just know she’s had a really shitty time of it, and she’s a few years older than me, and I think she’s a bit…
apprehensive. About what, you know, lies ahead. ’
‘Don’t blame her in the slightest.’
‘Yeah. Well, I had an idea for our first session, and I wanted to run it past you, and—’
She groans so loudly that she almost misses me say, ‘Massage.’
‘What?’ she says. ‘Did you say massage?’
‘Yeah,’ I say again. ‘Like, if I set it up a bit like a role play. You know, she comes in for a massage and—’
‘—you go in deep with your very own Hitachi wand?’ Annabel says through a fit of giggles.
‘No,’ I protest loudly. ‘Not at all. I probably wouldn’t even shag her the first time. I just want to make her comfortable.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Honestly, this conversation is beyond horrifying, but I think a massage is a great idea.’
‘Do you?’ I’m genuinely surprised.
‘I do. It’s Giles’ favourite way to get me in the mood for, you know…’
Now it’s my turn to groan, and I do. Loudly.
‘Look, do you want my advice or not?’ Annabel says. ‘Gracie, give that back to your brother. Now.’
‘Yeah,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’ I take a swig of my protein shake and pause to admire myself in the large mirror in my living room.
I’m sweaty as fuck after that Peloton arms and legs ride, but I’m looking good.
Really good. I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, tousling it just the way I like it, and wink at myself for good measure.
Still got it.
I’m not sure how my younger sister manages to make me feel like a badly behaved child, but this little preen is enough to take the edge off it.
‘You might hate hearing about the fact that Giles and I have S-E-X,’ she tells me now in her Mummy Is Pissed Off voice, ‘but not as much as I hate knowing that you’re F-U-C-K-I-N-G everything that moves. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ I mumble.
‘Good. As I was saying, in response for your request for advice, massage is a lovely segue into intimacy. For me, anyway, but for a lot of women, I think. I can’t just go to bed and turn into an S-E-X goddess when I’ve still got bits of alphabet pasta in my hair, can I?
The massage kind of relaxes me, I suppose.
It gives me time to transition, and it brings my nervous system down, and it also feels like caregiving.
Like Giles is making me feel so loved and cared for that I’m less likely to try to kick him in the P-E-N-I-S, you know? ’
I do not know, but I can imagine that if someone had put two little humans inside my body, I might feel tempted to kick them in the D-I-C-K from time to time. I make a non-committal murmur that hopefully sounds vaguely sympathetic.
‘And it also allows me to get more present in my body,’ my sister muses.
‘Just having skin on skin. I’m sure there’s some magical nervous system explanation for it, but really, it’s nice.
Relaxing. It feels so indulgent. So yeah, usually by the time he’s finished giving me a good rubdown, I’m more than ready for him to slip a hand—’
Yep.
We’re done here.