Sex on Tuesdays Read Online Free PDF Page A

swear there were loose nuts and bolts rattling around inside my skull.
    The question of how I got home from the restaurant was still a complete blank. I guess, after I keeled over, Simon must have driven me home. But had he also put me to bed? For the life of me I couldn’t think who else could have performed this little task. My pet greyhound Horace is an exceptionally clever canine, but the fact that I’d woken in nothing but my Pooh-bear nightdress this morning, surely put him out of the running. And I’d found my little black dress, plus my underwear—all reeking of booze and vomit—stuffed in the washing machine with a load of whites I’d put in the day before and forgotten to wash.
    On the way to work I’d stopped off for a refill of black coffee at three different coffee shops, swallowing painkillers with every cup. But still I winced and held my fragile head at the loud squeak of unoiled hinges when I pushed open the front door of the Tribute’ s office.
    My plan was to quickly thank Simon for bringing me home—God knows what I’d say or do to him if he grinned and did that stupid cartoon eye-waggle of his—snaffle the pile of readers’ letters that had me stumped, and then blow the office to have lunch with Megan. It had become a ritual to catch up with Megan every Tuesday. We’d have a gossip, a giggle and then iron out any of my readers’ sticky sex problems. Between Internet surfing and Megan’s hands-on experience, I always managed to come up with the goods.
    A babble of excited voices greeted me as I let the heavy wooden door slap shut behind me…immediately followed by silence. Sensing six pairs of eyes following me as though my dress was tucked in my knickers, I hoisted my bright red imitation-leather bag more firmly over my right shoulder and turned in the direction of my desk. The moment I moved, my colleagues went back to work. It was like the director of a movie had clapped his hands for action in the second take of a scene. All the cast members frantically pressed numbers on their mobiles, clicked on their keyboards or dug for envelopes in desk drawers.
    â€œHi Tracy. What’s up?” I asked pausing beside the desk of the Tribute ’s feisty book reviewer and literary guru and forcing my numb lips into a smile.
    She spoke without taking her eyes off the floor. “Nothing! Nothing’s up!”
    â€œGood,” I said and bent my head to peer at the floor. “Sorry I couldn’t go to your lingerie party last night. How did it go?”
    â€œFine! Fine!” The Tribute’ s literary contributor sent every one of her exclamations in the direction of the grey industrial carpet at our feet.
    I shook my head. Couldn’t see a damn thing of interest down there. So what the heck was going on?
    â€œGood day, Rob,” I said stopping at the next desk. “Bet you took some top photos at the one-day cricket match yesterday. Great win by Australia, hey?”
    â€œMmm….” Robert Pilgrim, the Tribute’ s normally garrulous photographer bashed the side of his head in his hurry to get said piece of anatomy under the desk so he wouldn’t have to continue the conversation.
    Another few steps along, “Hi, Dee Dee. Love your Jimmy Choo boots. They go well with that caramel colored skirt.”
    â€œThanks.” The Tribute ’s fashion writer stared at a spot on the far wall like she was afraid if she didn’t keep it under surveillance it might change into a huntsman spider.
    Had I stepped into the wrong building? If not, why was everyone treating me like I was invisible?
    Blanking out the bongo drums banging away in my head, I dumped my bag on my desk and fisted both hands on my hips. “Okay,” I declared to all and sundry, “why is everyone acting like I’m the reason Lindy Chamberlain’s baby was taken by a dingo?”
    All eyes slid away from me.
    â€œWell, if