Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And now I’ve been playing with Reuben, like that.
Even though it was just a small part of the show, I’m already feeling the backlash. The pain I’ve been burying deeper, year after year.
I won’t be able to handle Caroline. No way. So, why beat around the bush?
I’m not coming, I type. Not tomorrow, and not to Xmas dinner. I’ll get an extra special rate for a Christmas Day booking. I’ll be coining it, and I’ll be fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it. x
‘I’ll be fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it.’
I use that phrase like a mantra, constantly, and it’s usually true. It’s just now that I’m getting older, with the contrast of cute little Caroline with her cute little baby bump… it just isn’t feeling quite the same.
The wrenched apart from Reuben feeling sure isn’t helping. Jesus fucking Christ, I feel like such a gooey twat.
I shove my phone back in my hoodie yet again but get another ping straight through. No doubt some pacifying message about how Caroline won’t be such a dick, and if I want to talk about anything we can do it without Ella, in the friendship code or whatever.
I love him for it, I really do. I’ll tell him so, but I’m not going to change my mind.
Only the message onscreen isn’t from Josh. It’s a proposal notification.
Fuck. It can’t be. Not already.
User 5639. Male. 47.
Suddenly those butterflies have swarmed and my heart is in my throat.
I had a great time tonight, Creamgirl. I wish you could have stayed longer, but I know proposals are proposals, and time out means time out.
This time around, I want to book more hours with you. Go big, or go home, as they say.
I love big, Cream, as you’ve undoubtedly gathered. So, please consider my offer.
Duration: 24 hours.
Proposal fee: £48,000.
He’s having a laugh. Forty-eight fucking grand?!
I’d do it for another tenner. Fuck that. I’d give him a tenner. More than a tenner. Maybe not forty-eight grand, but I’d pay him a decent chunk.
I take out the ten-pound note stashed in my pocket from earlier, and it feels like some kind of memento. A sacred trophy.
There’s no way I’ll ever be spending this. Not a chance in hell.
Proposal accepted I click, and I manage to select my nearest calendar date before another message from Josh pings through.
This time I switch my phone to silent before I stuff it back in my pocket.
I can’t be arsed with a Christmas dinner conversation when I’d rather be in a hot bath, dreaming of Reuben Sinclair.
11
REUBEN
The butler takes my coat when I reach Bryson’s house. A huge stately manor on the north side of the city.
“Good evening, Mr Sinclair.”
“Reuben, please,” I tell him for the five hundredth time. “How are you doing, Len?”
“Not too bad. Looking forward to Christmas. We’re going to Gill’s place for dinner. The kids are coming down from York.”
I’ve known Len for years now. He’s been working for Bryson for over a decade, and during that time I’ve been privy to his major life events, even just in passing. He’s from a large family, originally from up north. He’s still got a great twang of an accent, and a genuine joy for life.
Nobody would think he was the man responsible for leading hooded whores into the games room and setting them up for sessions of utter filth. But that is the case for most of us in this building. It brings out a side of our coins most people would never comprehend.
“How is Georgie doing?” I ask. “Is he recovering?”
Len grins. “He’s desperate to get back to football practice, little tyke. He’s speeding around on crutches like a wizard. Got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow to see how his knee is.”
I’ve only seen pictures of Len’s family, but Georgie always jumps out at me. He’s the kind of child I like, full of life and energy, with silly faces for the camera. Such a character. I’m happy for Len that he’s going to have such a wonderful gathering over the holidays. Since Jeanette left me, my Christmas Days have been somewhat muted. Lonely, many would say.
I’ve always marked it as a useful day for introspection and gratitude around my charity work, but there has been an ache over the past few years.
“The group are already set up in the dining hall,” Len says. “Everyone is here bar Mr Carson. His flight’s been delayed.”
“Thanks, Len.”
At least I’m not the latest attendee. I always like to be punctual, but on grotto days it’s difficult. I hate having to close the line while kids are still keen for the queue.
I walk through Bryson’s large stone hall to join the others. The founders are an eclectic crew, but we all have two things in common.
Money, and a penchant for hardcore filth.
I have both in abundance, but still, I’m one of the lower branches on this tree. Some of these men have corporations that span across the globe, and political associations worth billions.