Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?: An absolutely hilarious laugh out loud page turner

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?

  An absolutely hilarious, laugh-out-loud page-turner

  Kristen Bailey

  Books by Kristen Bailey

  Can I Give My Husband Back?

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?

  Available in audio

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life? (available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Hear More from Kristen

  Books by Kristen Bailey

  A Letter from Kristen

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Back then I wouldn’t have said I was a bitch exactly, but I was all the things that came from being a young professional Londoner: I was broadly cynical, deep into a free overdraft, my bloodstream was a mix of takeaways and watered-down cocktails, and I was prone to meltdowns over stolen teabags and my flatmates interrupting my sleep. I was a city girl working in magazine publishing, so naturally I was also a superficial douche. This was why when I first met Danny Morton, I was obsessed by his spectacularly ugly shoes. Footwear that hideous will brand itself into a girl’s memory; that and the moment I barged past, half-cut, spilling my overpriced White Russian all over him.

  ‘Oh bollocks…! Wow…’ I said the wow as I glanced down at his shoes being showered in my cocktail. Maybe the drink would make them less ugly? I giggled to myself. We were in a Soho pub, full of London’s finest cosmopolitan wankery, loafers and neon trainers and this gentleman had on clumpy walking boots, like he was setting off up a mountain or had come to fix my sink. ‘Those look sturdy.’

  He wasn’t impressed or bothered. ‘Where I come from, a lass would apologise.’

  ‘Oooooh, “Where I come from”?’ I mimicked his broad Northern accent. I couldn’t pinpoint it. North for me was anywhere past Brent Cross. ‘Manchester?’ That’s North.

  He eyeballed me. Was he handsome? Frankly who knew, I was so boozed up. He held out a hand.

  ‘Danny Morton, how do you do…’

  I really was drunk. I curtseyed.

  ‘Meg Callaghan, very well, thank you.’ I said with a strange affected posh voice.

  He smiled. ‘I haven’t had an apology yet.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You don’t sound sure about that?’

  ‘You’re a bit bolshy.’

  ‘You’re a bit rude.’ He turned his back to me. ‘Fookin’ Southerners.’

  I’m not sure why but this struck a chord that I couldn’t ignore. I was never precious about where I was from or who I was. I quite liked being a Londoner; it meant that I was trendy, metropolitan and globally aware by association. But he was surly and quite frankly, a bit of a tit. Have I mentioned I was also very drunk?

  ‘Oh piss off, fucking Liam Gallagher.’

  I’m not sure why I compared him to Liam Gallagher; it may have been the ape like persona and the fact I’d committed to him hailing from Manchester, but Britpop was all the rage back then. I was also fully aware that to support the fact that I was indeed a fully-fledged Londoner, I may have replaced my accent and gone all Cockney on him.

  ‘Facking?’ he said quizzically back at me.

  ‘Fooking,’ I replied.

  He laughed. I wasn’t sure why. He looked me in the eye and did this strange action where he seemed to be doffing an imaginary flat cap. I thought it was quite charming but I was still offended by his aversion to my Southerness and frankly confused by the shoes situation.

  An arm reached over my shoulder at that point. ‘Holy flaps, Meggers. We can’t drink here anymore. Bloke at two o’clock, I think I may have shagged him and peed in his kitchen sink because I couldn’t find the toilet in his house. I think his name is Ron.’

  Bloody Beth. She stopped for a moment to check out my new Northern acquaintance. He, in return, stared intently at the sort of person feral enough to piss in a sink. Danny and I turned to see the man in question. ‘Ron’ had a strange centre parting and fringe curtains. I felt pangs of disappointment for my sister. Beth was still eyeing up Danny, but her expression read horror when she got to the shoes.

  ‘I’m Beth. I’m the sister. She’s Meg and she’s single.’

  Beth was newly graduated and excitable. Her main agenda seemed to be recreating her university experience in the real world but constantly moaning about how everything was far more expensive and that she didn’t like it. She was training to be a teacher, with an agenda to save the kids from themselves. However, they swore at her and she was slowly realising poetry wasn’t something that could be taught via the power of rap. It meant we usually ended our weeks with ‘a drink to see in the weekend’ that turned into us one hundred quid shy by the morning with handbags full of soggy spring rolls from hitting the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet at 3 a.m. That night, Beth was off her face, varifocal drunk due to an uncontrollable set of Year 8s. It meant she shuffled on the spot, adjusting her vision like the sun had just hit her eyes.

  ‘She’s a journalist and that is all her own hair. She is a fricking catch,’ she said, pointing to me.

  Danny Morton started laughing. Beth had the awesome ability of letting people into snippets of conversations in which they’d had no previous participation. She was referring to when ten minutes previously, we’d been talking about a girl at the bar whose extensions looked like they’d been applied with a hot glue gun. Beth proceeded to stroke my hair like one would a spaniel.

  ‘So, a journalist for what? Like the newspapers?’ Danny asked.

  ‘For Red magazine.’

  ‘Don’t read it.’ It was an absolute answer. But strangely, I found it very compelling. Too often, you mention you’re a journalist and people feign interest or come at you with their bullshittery. He seemed to have no concern about ingratiating himself to me.

  ‘You’re both sisters, eh? Got the same chin.’ His tone didn’t read as complimentary.

  ‘Yeah… and what of it?’ Beth replied. If anything, we were now starting to look like a couple of drunken townies out for a brawl. I was also very aware that Beth was losing rigidity in her legs. My main thought was how I was going to get her home. Fireman’s lift to a cab or drag her about on the Tube?

  ‘Were there dishes in sink?’ he asked.

  ‘What sink?’ Beth replied.

  ‘The one you urinated in after you shagged Ron over there.’ He gestured toward Mr Fringe Curtains and Beth shimmied to the side of me to hide both herself and her shame.

  ‘No?’ Her indignant reply led us to believe she wasn’t sure.

  ‘How could you not find a toilet in someone’s gaff?’

  ‘I was drunk, it was one of those giant shared houses where every door I opened was another bedroom or storage. I was busting. It was either the sink or the floor.’

  What Danny did next was brilliant.

  ‘OI, RON!’

  The group of men ‘Ron’ was stood with at the bar all turned around. Danny raised his beer at them. Beth went an even brighter shade of raspberry. The sheer audacity shocked me to silence; people around us went very quiet.

  ‘YOUR NAME RON, FELLA?’ He singled out the one in question.

  ‘My name’s Seb, mate.’

  His friends were starting to puff out their chests in a territorial way. Man, this is how bar fights start, I thought. I was twenty-four and going to get glassed in a bar because my sister possibly took a whizz in this man’s sink.

  Beth clung on to Danny’s arm. ‘Please stop talking now—’

  ‘NO BOTHER, BIRD HERE THOUGHT SHE KNEW YOU FROM BACK WHEN.’

  Beth waved back. The men in the group shrugged and shook their heads. They also started to relax, wearing looks of pity now that perhaps Danny was just a bit of a social oddball. I was still trying to work out the Northern vernacular but as first impressions went was also surprised by the size of this man’s balls. I may have laughed to that effect.

  Beth punched him in the arm. ‘I don’t belieeeeeve you!’

  ‘Just… there are a lot of people in London. Statistically, it can’t have been likely to be him. Did you use his dishcloth after to dab yourself down?’

  By this time I was in hysterics. I was protective of my sisters but there was also fun to be had in winding them up and this man seemed intent on being an accomplice. Beth wasn’t getting the joke and hit him again. Another man appeared at this point, watching my drunken sister take him on.

  ‘Making friends again I see, Danny? You got beef with them tossers at the bar? We could take ‘em.’

  Beth stopped play-hitting to give this gent the once over. I’ll admit he was the better looking of the two; better taste in footwear and denim and a well-defined jaw.

  ‘Ladies, I’m Stu… How do?’ He waved a continental beer about his person. He was the more relaxed of the two lads, too cocky for my liking. Beth’s demeanour changed and she re-jigged her boobs.

  By the similarity of their accents, I had a punt. ‘Brothers?’ Danny said nothing but raised his ale bottle in the affirmative. ‘Same chins,’ I muttered. Danny smiled. Stu was giving Beth the eye while I tried to prop her up.

  ‘These two are sisters,’ said Danny. ‘Meg and Beth. She’s a journalist and this one likes to pee in sinks.’

  I laughed. Stu did a thumbs up, the revelation clearly not deterring him from checking out my sister’s arse.

  ‘Excuse me,’ intervened Beth. ‘It could be worse, Megs here once shat outside someone’s front door.’ Oooh, deflection. Cow. She and Stu burst into laughter and I shook my head, slowly. Danny started sniggering but held a hand out for a high five. I placed my palm in the air and reluctantly engaged.

  ‘It was a dirty protest. I was at university and he was a sexual predator who’d taken advantage of a mate.’

  Danny’s smile got broader. It was bizarre to think I was winning him over. He suddenly seemed more interested in me for being able to take a stand using the contents of my bowels.

  ‘Meg, rhymes with smeg…’ Stu joked. Beth thought this hilarious. It wasn’t, but Danny and I both read their intention instantly and I allowed Beth to drape herself off the better-looking brother while I stood there in awkward conversation with the older one.

  Was there a spark with Danny? There was something refreshing about his candour and he seemed a solid sort. However, there was something that told me he was the kind of straight man who was here simply to drink. After he finished his dark ale (heave), he’d go home via a curry house in time to catch a re-run of Eurotrash. In the morning, he’d wake without a hangover and do something sensible like go for a run or walk a dog, a sensible dog with a Northern name like Lad.

  I’m not even sure I’d been on the pull that night. At that point, I was free, easy, just keeping an eye open. I’d sworn off relationships for a while after Dexter. Dexter was an artsy wannabe writer; we’d lived together and, at the time, I’d thought he was profound and deeply intelligent. I’d envisioned a future selling his poetry leaflets and living off love and creativity. Then one day I said I didn’t get one of his poems. Next thing you know, he turned into a melodramatic shit who walked out and took my kettle. It was a bloody good kettle.

  So you’re probably wondering how this evening panned out. Stu and Beth probably got it on, right? Some drunken sex back in a three-bedroomed shared flat, some open-mouthed snogging, the night ending with their bodies sprawled across a mattress that came with the rental (and had been treated for bed bugs, several times) and the swapping of phone numbers that may or may not have led to the sparks of a potential relationship.

  No.

  After Beth laughed at Stu’s rubbish smeg joke, we all got some shots in. The bar we were in played a rather lively mix of house music which Beth and Stu grinded away to quite inappropriately. Danny and I joined them like some sort of older sibling chaperones. There was gentle swaying on our part and a moment when the DJ played a dance remix of Britney Spears and Danny mouthed all the words to the chorus and seemed to know parts of the accompanying dance routine.

  At about 11 p.m., Beth and Stu ended up outside the bar having a snog and a bit of inappropriate frottage against the doors of a closed artisan cake shop. They got a cab back to Beth’s place in Hammersmith but when she got through the door, she threw up in the hallway. That girl never knew how to mix her liquor. She was lucky that Stu didn’t take advantage of this. Instead, he waited outside the toilet for a while hearing her spewing, hoping it was just the one bout and he’d still be able to achieve congress that evening. However, after the toilet flushed for the third time, he popped his head around the door to wish her a good night. She didn’t respond. She dropped her phone in the loo. Before Stu left, he threw a bit of newspaper and bleach over the carpet thinking it was the kindly thing to do, but this only discoloured it greatly meaning Beth never got all of her security deposit back.

  We bring this story up a lot when Beth and Stu meet, even though they hate it. They’ve always held a grudge for each other which I feel is more due to the embarrassment that they half had sex in the street. Five months after this, Beth met Will who became her long-time boyfriend. Stu shagged his way around London and at one point had a very serious case of gonorrhoea, which I knew about as Stu showed up on our doorstep one day grumbling that his wang was falling off and asking Danny how he could fix it.

  At the same time Beth and Stu had been dry humping in the street, Danny and I stood beside our siblings, staring into space about the wheres and hows of getting home and wondering if we were hungry. We watched Beth and Stu get into a cab.

  ‘Come with us!’ they roared.

  Danny and I declined politely and watched them drive off, their faces attached to each other in the back seat. I thought about chips and jumping in a taxi. Or maybe a bus. It was summer. I thought about walking, about my aching feet. Should I go home and make oven chips? That was a bind. I worked out which was the closest chippy/kebab shop and which was the less stingy when it came to garlic mayonnaise. I thought about texting my roommate, to see how her date went. It was with a bloke she’d met through her new yoga regime. I thought about what if I got home and they were going at it all tantric in the front room? Maybe I shouldn’t go home. I wasn’t prepared for what I heard next.

  ‘Fancy a fuck?’

  I turned to look at Danny Morton. He said ‘fuck’ strangely – in deep guttural Northern tones. He was looking straight ahead so I wasn’t sure if he was even talking to me. I didn’t suppose he was so drunk that he was talking to the lamp post. He wasn’t shy, or coy about it. He knew exactly what he wanted. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Chips were suddenly not a priority. Danny stuck his hand out into the street and a taxi stopped. He got in the back and left the door open. I followed.

  ‘Victoria Park fella, Lauriston Road,’ he said to the driver.

  We didn’t say anything to each other for the whole cab ride. I remember being sat on opposite sides of the seat and not even holding each other’s gaze. I’m not sure what the taxi driver must have thought. To any outsider, it may have looked like we were mid-fight, a cloud of some sort of tension sat between us. When Danny stopped the cab, he paid for it and held the door open for me. He opened the front door – a plaque on it claiming it to be the ‘Cumbrian Embassy’ – to a flat that was above a bohemian clothes shop. When he got through the door, he stepped in and I followed. He turned, closing the door with one hand behind me. He was unfeasibly close.

  What happened next? Oh my days. I remember him pulling his body into mine. The kiss was extraordinary, exceptional: the hand to the back of my head, fingers tracing my collar bone. He turned and pinned me to the stairs. He said nothing. He parted my legs with his hand and moved his head down to my waist, pulling my skirt up. I could feel his lips through my knickers. He used his fingers to move the fabric to one side and I felt his tongue lightly press against me. I put my hands down on the steps to steady myself, mostly from the shock that he had located my clitoris. He then moved himself up over me, unbuckling his belt, removing my knickers and well, we had that fuck he was after.

  And I remembered feeling aroused but strangely excited thinking about the times when first-time sex had not gone like this at all: the sloppy misaimed jabbing against my perineum, the neck lickers, that lad who convulsed and I was worried the power of Christ had compelled him. The time I had nearly garrotted someone with my handbag, coats getting in the way, sex that’s clumsy and you’re constantly apologising to each other. I simply felt surprise, pleasant surprise. He was of reasonable size and girth and knew exactly how to move. I’d never felt that build-up of energy within me to reciprocate. I pushed my hips against his, hearing him moan slightly.