Bad Boy Summer

Chapter 1

Friday nights at the STD clinic are a lot of fun.

Not necessarily for the patients, but for the staff it’s the quietest night of the week because most people who suspect they have a sexually transmitted disease decide that Friday is head-in-the-sand time and put off dealing with it till Monday.

We’re usually in the pub by six.

I don’t work on the medical side of things.

I rent a room here as a therapist specialising in relationships and couples’ counselling.

The private sexual health clinic, kitted out with plush carpets and polished brass fittings, is discreetly located in a basement in Harley Street.

It was set up by Charles Clarence-Webb, my boyfriend’s godfather, who made oodles of cash as a private GP.

Rich is a therapist too and it was his nepo-baby suggestion to include a suite of therapy rooms. A safe place to patch up your relationship after – oops! – giving your partner chlamydia.

At five to six, there’s a loud knock on the door, and before I can respond, Charles comes strolling in.

‘Ah, Nella, my dear, alone at last.’

Charles has that old English gentleman charm that makes him impossible not to like. If I’d met him when he was in his twenties, his cheesy lines would have made him insufferable, but now he’s sixty, the twinkle in his eye lets him get away with murder.

‘I could have been with a patient.’

He smiles. ‘I’m your boss. I know your schedule. I know everything about everyone.’

I roll my eyes. ‘You’re not my boss, Charles. We’ve been through this. What can I help you with? I was just about to head out.’

‘Of course. Chopper’s whisking you off to Paris for a naughty weekend.’

I have no idea why Charles calls Rich Chopper – all his family does, for no discernible reason. Everyone calls his brother Snot and he doesn’t even mind. Honestly, posh people and their nicknames.

‘I wanted to give you this,’ he says, holding out his arm and looking pleased with himself.

In his hand is an engraved brass desk plate that reads: Dr Nella Praxitelis.

It’s taken me until the age of thirty-one to get my PhD, fitting my studies around full-time work, so seeing my name with ‘Doctor’ in front of it for the first time makes me quite emotional.

I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘That’s very sweet, thank you.’

‘I know it’s not official yet, but I couldn’t wait.’ He grins again and turns the plaque round.

The other side says: The Heart Doctor.

‘Do you get it?’ he asks, enthusiastic as a puppy. ‘You’re our relationship expert, and you’ve got a PhD now.’

I walk around my desk and give him a hug. ‘Thanks, Charles.’

He looks embarrassed for a second but quickly recovers. ‘Now, mind Rich doesn’t get you pregnant. I don’t want to lose my prettiest employee.’

‘You can’t say things like that. And once again, I rent a room here. I’m not an employee.’

Charles is an incorrigible flirt but mostly harmless.

Except he keeps hiring very young and very good-looking women to work on reception even though it probably breaks a dozen employment laws and also, more practically, rattles the blokes who sneak in on their lunch break and don’t want a hot young thing imagining their penis encrusted with pustules.

A school-marmish sixty-year-old would be way better for business.

When I first told my parents I was working at the clinic, Mum took me aside and whispered, ‘Put toilet paper on the seat before you sit down, or better yet, just hover.’

I know it’s daft, but she got into my head. On the plus side, my quads have never looked better.

‘Anyway, enjoy Paris,’ says Charles. ‘And tell Rich to try to relax. He’s been very tense recently. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was planning something. How long have you been together now – five years?’

His question is left hanging, my attention caught on the words ‘planning something’.

‘Charles, what do you know?’

‘Hmm?’ He affects an air of innocence. ‘I know nothing.’ He makes a zipping gesture across his mouth. ‘Lips are sealed and all that, old girl.’

I shake my head. ‘Yours are the least sealed lips in London.’

Charles is an HR manager’s nightmare, not that he employs one.

He gossips about patients all the time, barely keeping their names anonymous.

I have to remind him that losing ‘Chlamydia Clive’ – City fund manager and repeat customer – would not be good for business.

His in flagrante delicto mishaps are what kept the clinic afloat in the early days, especially when he started recommending us to all his fin tech bros.

He’s a caring, sharing sort of guy – as long as you’re not the one sharing his bed.

This weekend is my first time away with Rich in ages, and I’ve marked the occasion by getting a hair appointment. But as I’m walking to the salon in Marylebone, I get a call saying they’ve had a power cut and have closed early.

It’s a shame because I never have time for a cut and blow-dry, and this was a rare treat.

My hair can look good when I give it care and attention.

It’s long and thick – a little like Amal Clooney’s – but unlike Amal, I don’t have a coterie of stylists to get me ready every morning, so I usually let it dry naturally and wear it in a high ponytail.

On the tube home, my mind wanders back to what Charles said about Rich. Has he been tense recently? I’ve been so focused on my thesis I hadn’t noticed.

Rich has always had a lot of energy. His get-up-and-go attitude is what first attracted me to him.

He loves to try new things and to challenge himself.

His current project is helping Charles open a second clinic closer to the City; he often leaves early in the morning to visit properties in Canary Wharf.

He’ll be the first to admit he’s looking for his dad’s approval with what he’s done with his life. His father is a distinguished psychiatrist, and it was always assumed that Rich would follow in his footsteps and become Doctor Richard Benson, Jr.

But to become a psychiatrist involves years of general medicine, only specialising later. Being knee-deep in blood and guts and dead bodies seemed far removed from helping someone in mental distress, so he dropped out of medical school after a year.

Becoming a therapist was a much better fit. But not having that ‘Doctor’ prefix gets to him sometimes. I keep telling him he can do a doctorate like I have, but he’s not the staying-in-and-studying type. He’s a people person and, to be honest, I think that gets you further in life.

A big reason I did my PhD was to make my Greek parents happy, so Rich and I aren’t that different.

An immigrant’s favoured careers for their kids are: law, medicine, accountancy, and teaching.

Therapy wasn’t on the list, but now that I have a doctorate in psychology they sleep better knowing I can teach if all else fails.

I’m lucky with the tube, so by 7.30 p.m. I’m walking back to our Clapham flat with loads of time to pack.

I’m mentally going through what I need to bring when a woman shouting catches my attention.

Rounding the corner, I’m shocked to see Lucy from work.

I’m about to call out to make sure she’s okay but I stop myself. The person she’s shouting at is Rich.

I pause.

That’s odd. I didn’t think he was home.

He left work early to help his brother with a fridge delivery. I guess it came early?

A Prius with its back door open appears to be waiting while he tries to calm her down. After more words, she gets into the car, and Rich stalks into the flat.

Why is she angry with Rich? She left the clinic a couple of weeks ago – is there a problem with her final pay cheque? Rich sometimes helps his godfather with stuff like that, but why would she come here, on a Friday night?

I walk back a few steps and lean against a bus stop, then call Rich to find out what on earth is going on. But when he answers, he sounds his usual calm self.

‘Hey, hon,’ I say, keeping my voice light. ‘My hairdresser cancelled so I’m on my way home. Is everything okay?’

‘Where are you?’

Is there a tense rasp in his voice?

‘I just got off the tube. Are you at home?’

I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me he’s had a weird run-in with Lucy.

‘Yeah, fridge was delivered without a hitch, I’ve been back a while.’

I pause to give him a chance to say more, but he doesn’t.

‘Okay, well, see you in a few minutes.’

I hang up feeling stupid about my suspicions. If I’d simply asked, he could have put my mind at ease. What exactly do I think Rich is hiding?

A few moments later, he texts me.

Left my wallet at Snot’s – going back to get it.

Soon after, I hear his motorbike accelerating away.

I get to the flat, and in the next hour, I accomplish an impressive amount: I pack my suitcase, make a veggie chilli from scratch, and discover Rich is having an affair.